he leaves her
on a massage table inside
the lotus temple
in slightly wrinkled hands
with baluster
veins like drought sky.
when they disjoin after
a goodbye kiss she seems to breathe
coconut butter, she seems frightened.
he says, go to where you
just are. the hands on her back are
too cold. at her behest, they’re rubbed
together like firesticks until
he sees tiny noodles of black
skin roll up in the friction. he winces, the same
hands
raise the fresh towel above where
her French lace knickers start
and fall to her knots
again. he tears away.
Stonehenge in hay bales
swarms with long-haired kids, some of their necks
still clung to
by earmuffs from earlier dance floor
piggy-back rides. one father’s dreadlocks
have matted to form a single
sun-frizzed black beavertail, his camera
expensive-looking, hanging on their play.
he’s almost stopped by the sign
reading Influential
Gaia Demystified
out front of a workshop space
inside which a large crowd
sits cross-legged as an old man
with a Robin Hood hat speaks into a microphone
but he wants to walk. it’s good
to have left her a while. she’d be asking why he swung
his arms
so fast, why his was the physiognomy
of someone who didn’t love her.
last night, she’d pulled his sleeves in the UV blue
of the chill stage as if to say, relationships
resolved themselves
in cliff edges
when the abyss was acid-filled, as if to say
all that matters is
we know we own each other.
as in a blink
he is going to the northernmost
fence line but only knows it
if he focuses
and his focuses for the moment are
the smell of eggs being fried
on a dirty hot plate
the wine-cellar coolness of the air
the sunlight angling
like sex hair through the gum trees
and his missing her...
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