The Archivist

An oasis of blonde limbs and nutcracker patronage, of brawn bound dutifully upwards;
we mingle an hour with cumulus then skin ourselves with laughter at the water's edge;
a green escapade brought soundlessly to life by willow, birch and succulent nettle.
Forgetting myself afloat I turn my body over to the place where water meets sky;
torn between 10'000 mothers the ancient fear takes hold...
Pudding soft hash and a cardboard cup of rose separate me from the endeavours of evening,
where my grasp of you must wear an attire of false muscle.
A wild dog preens itself on a gloriously forgettable street corner; plastic cards caress, fluid changes
hands and the power of white little powders compels me to sit, stay, fumble and apologise.
I come undone with an Israelite on my tongue, let all doubt march deftly sideways.
I am at one with my failures for a flicker and then, I am gone.