This bristle of questions
Limp and pursed
A small tower of accusation
Built on a sand bank of
shot looks and skittering glances

In the waning haze of
Of a street-light orange night
Our white knuckles combine
And dissipate that distance
Down the truculent bones
Of our spine

So simple this love lark
Just plant your ink and go
Frolic down your new-build path
Faun in your saleable beige walls
Fuck in your queen-sized bed
And inevitably fall apart

We belong in the questions
You and I
The space in-between life
Where it all really happens
Lets hide there where everyone
Can see us

And let it all just happen.