A choral universe

is feeding out the tiny candles

of corners of rooms where play is delicate.

Is desire tangible in the hidden smile

of a brushed knee

and a shared cigarette?

Somewhere deep in a charcoal vein

is a hush and when it seems

that she is losing grip,

the room perfumes,

as warm as the amber

in the throat of wine.

A string of tea lights

sigh from a bed post

as the thunder from the outside

breathes a new galaxy into your eyes -

Your Thousand Machines,

twitching like a lovely heart attack.

It could be a fossil here,

it could be something you keep.

Shy can be a map that finds

her hidden

on every island, triggered a thousand times

more loudly

after the hands fall away.

Now, here and now,

speakers

grace the air with vowels

as coquettish

as melted chocolate

and shadows slip through your fingers

as the graze of her face

is sifted through the dark sweep of hair.

You both talk of landsacpes

and a painter

that leaves his canvas

as a constellation for a hunter

where sleepy cornfields

sing lullabies behind your eyelids.

A thousand times the paint splashed

back on her body,

sad,

because she still wears a summer dress in winter.

A thousand times, the heart break is more beautiful

when the hurt is hidden as if a girl's slip

and not a cross.

It is forgotton here;

the arms are not bruised,

both of you are dangling

from a branch

when laughter torched

your thousand smiles.

Strings at a peak will let

you know

you can move into her

a thousand times.