How I sleep in the memories of you now,
your handful laughter brighter and spider trapped
your smiles that kills me brighter now, in the isles of our bones
that struggle light,
silvers of blue recordings each others ashes
small but eternal wood adorned kingdoms bringing libraries now
made away from us in stairways
upwards to bedrooms and windowless strangerlessness
And you made me sleep like a queen on the manyed floor
Over sheets that don’t cheat minds but marble,
Little staring tears dashing the curtains
Blowing through the oceans that pour the insides of our very closenessness of napping.
First sleepers,
In a house of local men and rooms which still sleep local men asleep
With white sheet suits,
With fingers which pray each other more times than ten.
Smooth hairs all wrapped round the squarenessness of internal walls
Chipping grass all over numb legs and the edges of shipped glass windows,
Is this really the end.
Bad dreamers we must have been
With your lakefire eyes, with my maze snake thread
escaping everytime, burning my taps
And risked bored idol Saturdays.
Cause there are so many ways to see wisteria
in the medina from the French horizons of before Fez.
Tanning the shadow of the high up stand up bodies
In your month which is the wellspring,
Still cleaning me anyway
in thunder and loss.
Greta Bellamacina
Pic: Claire Palmer