Two Pieces For Left Hand

I The metallic clunk of intervals between voices - cognizant cogs drive fluctuations like ducks crossing a road. I tilt away from the coils of your being, your sounding. I see you speaking, twirling like a spinning six pence in the rush of on-coming traffic. II Together, we want the same chromed leverage. Knuckles cracked where handles mash. Long unused gears crunch inside flesh filled leather, we creak and stretch over old maps. Pushed against one another, leaning in, until hinges unclasp, we ride the hairpins, spring-loaded instants cream the road. A clockwork hallelujah that all ends in silence.