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.
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