I do believe I can feel it
Again at last
That slow trickle of words.
Pooling at the back of my skull
Where it hinges with the spine,
Welling up from below.
The upturned corner of a mouth.
The twinkle in an eye.
The slow ache of a lightly bitten lip…
So often inspiration doesn’t strike
Glides into the room
In a mist of moist matcha steam,
Traces her fingers up my spine,
Smooths out the shirt across my shoulders
And gently brushes my hair back
As she leans in
For a gentle kiss.
The wind tells me when to leave.
It howls obliquely
And I close my eyes.
It’s a strange fact
but it is the hands that I fear yet again;
The pleading golden ones
Waving in the gale
Or your gently distorted hooks
Twisted around my own.
My eyes are black with thought.
Your skin, the feathers of swans.
Seven of them,
Necks all curled like thumbs,
Beaks like swollen yellowed fingernails.
I pull at the skin around my mouth
And it comes away in my hand
Like sheafs of paper.
Leaflets about fear,
schizophrenia and depression.
I offer you a cup of my love
And you sip at it politely,
Making jokes about Parkinson’s
And the the shivering of my fingers
All about your face.