by the winter solstice,
if we finally find a home,
we'll strap rubber bands
to our boots and play
our own delicate swank -
our own harmony that tells our story -

writes it all over the wall
and it'll wait there till
the landlord comes and
paints over it all.

your bones are my bed frame
your flesh is my pillow -
oh, now, don't close your eyes.

the thought batters me down
every time your nude bare flesh
shivers on our chill cotton sheets -
'we're so young' and the slender cyclone
that winds us into whirlwind
is so elegantly willowy and wild.

the spin -
it's the asinine worship of
(you to) me to you and
i don't need your shudders
to know it's out of control.

if i slam my eyes shut,
i can see the place
where we used to live -
and it's a curious thing.

cause we used to belong to
the security of the soil -
the promise of support
from the encircling earth.

but now we rest in the
midst of spiraling danger
fast and faster with each
pining touch and poignant gaze -
we sit unmoving in the spinning tempest
and ogle each other in hushed desire.
it's a perilous game we play, but if
we were placed quietly back on the dirt –

why, we would never feel safe again.

and will we make it,
i don't know -
we're higher now
than ever before.