Stumbling

 

not yet ready

you undress

shivering in this

 

unknown room

touching the not-real

snow of his body

 

to bring its edges

together

your lips parted

 

but not speaking

to the stranger

removing his clothes

 

who holds you

to him free

from memory

 

the air so cold

a home you are

detached from

 

 

Field Trip

 

 

The tilted sign outside says no refunds.

I press the buzzer, give my name and reason

for my visit. I use a different language when the voice

asks for it. A door whirs shut behind me.

I follow the others underground, bend low,

hold tight to a rail down broken steps.  The voice

grows quiet. In the light from the last candle

our battered hats and stooped shoulders

make us strangely shaped. Only with the sound

of lapping do we know when we have reached

the underground lake. We have found the lost

children asleep. No one will touch them now.

Our boat fills, rocking gently in the darkness.

 

 

Escaping Colours

 

 

The too-pale face enters the water.  The message

it mouths in a close-up is perhaps goodbye

but one sees no reason to leave.  It is not by chance

 

that the exhibition starts here with couples, almost

like real people in their tiny identical panels

where the sex scenes are intractably themselves

 

though there are only black lines to indicate

movement and we cannot hear the tiny cries

uttered in starbursts.  This is the world of particles

 

and waves with no facial expressions to negotiate.

One woman's hairy mole is another man's penis

chipped off. It's just what the tourists came to see.

 

For an additional charge, the woman will adjust

her goggles and cap.  But you may end up sleeping

with the ice-cream vendor, who is highly photogenic.