returning you to the rocks and stones.
returning you to the arms of the air. returning the air to the arms of the air and returning the air to me. opening the coffins of the waiting, flicking the lighter and hearing the hiss of the gas. the hair at the back of your head catches colour as you walk to the other side of the room, ask her to dance. my hand touches the hair at the back of his head, on the the horizontal wound, the new blood welling before his collapse. a woman is standing in the bath, concerned with the soap on her legs, and when his weight comes into my arms the front door's still open. returning you to the rocks and the stones. returning you to the arms of the air. the colour of your hair returning the sun on the water and the smoothness of your step returning to - returning to -

where is that? it is in my hips but not there, in any hips, in any hand coming again to its work in love, this hour, that hour, yes, now, ten minutes, five, holding the book open and walking with the pages turned to the walkway lights, three steps on and the light falls out into dark, open, walk, three steps on and the dark falls down into milk, to a haze of moths and running geckoes, down into the lines on the page here black for any mouth, any walking is my coming, anyone's the long abductor muscles, tight, pinging on each step holding that me in to me in the walking that goes on, the walking that is ready for longer, ready for the open practice of you, him, my hymn now my you and you now just him (no, interim, his coming through long steps into the night of your head injury, taking it, your weight in my spine and my arms spreading to lift that self up and out