your back

as absurd as the wise resolution of Scholasticus,
not to venture into the water until he had learned to swim

I am watching your back
sleeping.
and wondering the dream your back is whirling through:
against the wall, blindfold, waiting for the final
gunshot
tangled in rapeseed fields, buttercups, daisy imaginations
harsh and insistent carpet burn, back
on the bedroom floor
swooping through dusty skies and firework illuminati
as you learn to fly.

I am waiting to touch your back
waiting for some mole twitched sign which would allow
my fingers to resurrect the alcohol courage,
and begin a tentative invasion
- which by 3am will have set up flags and instigated governments, councils, entire religions
to the crotch.

a month in bed will be unleashed by this first touch:
an extinguished match of a touch,
Jacuzzi bubble through tight swimwear,
ice cube dripping from lips
- kind of touch

which would set up the tripwire on the clifftop
and let us plunge mercilessly into
that sublime realm
where everything is permitted
and fingers expected.

where your back is facing the window
with the freckles
grinning