Love Poetry For Couple

She rides side-saddle into her own clich� her heart is pumping smoke boots heavy with things unsaid sunset flecked with mud she�s breathing fire flames curl from her lips slow-dancing lovers with cigarette smiles slink and hips turn on the clock and still after all this time after so many battered leather jackets crumpled sleeps on strangers� couches cups of tea from chipped mugs

. It may be of no surprise to you that the day your book arrived the waxeyes at my feeder were noisier, more nervous and more abundant than usual. On the global face, I live on the lower cheek of the world where the tears fall and turn to ice. So you might not know these little birds. They may have hitched a ride on some seafaring boat and decided to stay. Or perhaps they caught the tail of some

A full stop. In the middle of a sentence. Not enough water in the jug for a cup of tea, and all the milk's run out for good. Fumbling for your keys in your bag at night. No-one remembered to switch the light on before they went out. That time you forgot your coat in a southerly, called home and no-one was there. Just the hollow sound of you waiting on the other end. But I've got news, you

First comes feet, on tippy tippy toe � a stretching, a reaching for approval, perfection, a cracking a creaking, a split and a snap, but nothing that a good length of tape and some newly brokenin shoes can�t fix, shoes with the insides torn out like an inquisition, then beaten and slashedlittle dancers, little digits, they carry her away The next, a cliche�, but an oldy and a goody,

Tusk Tusk was settled by rogue miners. They went too far up-creek, there was no gold, they were lost. They found instead the coloured stones. The women are most industrious in tusk and the children hop from house to house. Perhaps because of the minerality of the River tusk children�s hair will colour as they age. Purple is the predominant hue; some boys turn green. The huge prismatic

1 It is to the island and the coastlands that the shifting light tethers on a fluid line weaving water and sand and rock. The point of going away is always to come back � thrice deny, and you come back to the shells of your sandheaps, allow that there could be an old spirit or two or simply an old love affair with the harbour playing you in. 2 Climbing to the houses you look down to where