MATCH


Swallowing each other like Russian dolls,
coupling up like trains;
like budded blooms
compact together,
we breathe between tight sheets –

ours an inspired exchange
like rings that band a marriage bed.

Presenting a collage like Escher –
your burnt cheek of shame,
my elbow of grief,
her backbone of happiness,
his nipple of supplication –
we carve together our
totem of words.

One on top of the other
this household displays
its varied face
of idea, belief and significance;

each poet is kindling in the pile
and should match be struck,
we burn –

become powdered sands
of unseen time
scattered by hands
of winds displaced.