Friday, 10 September 2010


Touch’s suction
May be too much,
But Christ I’d like it wringing
Out my life
Within your vice.

Sectioned on the edges
Of the world
As we have been recently
I miss your grip
Upon my sanity;

I long for your absorption
Of my thoughts;
Your drawing of my form;
Your soaking cloak
To reek of me.

I feel like leprosy
Has captured me in
Its withering attrition,
And I will never know again
The facts of contact.

I need the missing fence,
This lesser sense,
To cradle my unstable mind
Inside its hiding place
And make me safe.

So fetch me love,
And stretch upon
My soundless skin your blessing;
Compressing me
Until I’m squeezed enough.

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