I will taste your tears
from the hollow at the base of your throat,
where they collect, come festival,
as the dance goes faster than you can sing,
the notes begin to fumble as they leave your fingertips
a tangled mass,
resonant on the floor.
Your widespread eyes have more dreams than they can hold,
and in the right kind of light,
when they are between mud and cornflower blue,
they are mine for the caging.
Love, love, with your charity shop silks,
how calmly you catch the right train and flow away.