Navigator
A hawk head of a sun.
Neck line & forearms,
wind hushed red
from the grip
of the unexpected heat.
I watch you
in this flipped world.
Navigator.
Stargazer
of the flicker constellation,
a flash gun sea.
The many hands of light.
You are auburn gold
in the rub.
Unpicked by scavengers,
by questions, breathing
like an ordinary day.
Form of shadows & light
play in the space
by your side,
between you & me,
the space they should be,
our other traveller.
I watch you
in this flipped world
you’re woven gold.
My vision.
In another version of myself, I am a happy mess
Death lives on the coast.
Its thick with it.
Where there is death,
there is sun,
where there is suffering,
the sparkle tide
blinds the eyes to it,
to all the subtle changes,
how life tolerates its salt –
forming their hard carcass shell,
toughen roots of daisies,
beneath a white curve
of a gentle front,
the fine horse mane of whispering clouds
in the blue.
Beauty can’t be trusted.
Listen with the right pitch
and you’ll hear it,
exposed in hissing withdrawals of tides.
What we see as the imbue tourist
is thrilling as a path of tongues to first kisses.
All Nature is,
is urge & returning.
It was wrong to come here,
wrong to escape you,
try loosen my grip on the wish bone
in stealth of sun,
‘cause all the compass hand will do
is swing from heart – to head – to low ache.
It’ll remain the pointing finger of my own
silent hand
of every drink,
every cigarette I touched
before I knew of you,
every bad meal,
everything which made
my body
unready for you.
Loss is settling like water.
Affliction finds your lowest point,
your deepest well.
and I sing up from it, sing with
all those who sleep
with one eye on their body.
A nervous of nature, of touch.
And in a moment passing, the
breeze brushes the hair
from my face.
There is a heat
to the ground.
The Last Time We Saw Strangers by Christopher Hopkins – On Goodreads
