It’s a direct drive of fifty litres

From me to you.

Six hundred miles north

Until I’m resting my eyes on your face:

That soothing easy care

From the dial and touch

Of your features

 

The mixed fabric of your voice

Trickling through my cells.

 

I am freestanding

But will bloom

When you enter the room.

 

Until then,

I’m in this intensive

Spanner of time

The silent wash of tyres beneath me

That spin only stories of stability

From the road.

 

My four rolling chaperones

Do not know of The Delicates:

Your hand cool at the back of my neck

My eyelashes against your cheekbone

How cotton smells on your skin.  

 

They have only known the kiss of asphalt

 

But the memory of that

Is enough to spur them on.