Us

Sit still with me

betwixt the stars

Where there is no light 

No light at all 

Where there is no broken 

Where there is no fixed 

Where there are no stories 

Where there is no next 

No me, no you 

No skin nor bone 

No life, no death 

Just us 

Tyre

Socked feet

on carpeted floor; 

comfortably curved back. 

The hum and crackle of 

expanding copper, 

as heated water 

warms the nativity 

of today's time and space.

I am here.

Where is Memphis? 

How much of Maslow's 

tower is systemically 

sculpted of blood and cracked bone? 

I am here:

with waking seagulls,

where an actualising butterfly

easily waves a left wing 

into a thimble-sized breeze.

I am here;

Tyre is there.

Hurricanes of fists and batons.