I am not a stylish hand
You are not red-clover tea
I am a basker waiting for sharks
To tread the water in fin-love
& remedy is not vanilla-flavoured
Orange tetrahedron or gargoyles
Pretending to be pretty.

I am not a leather rose
You are not a leaping lemon
There is a memory that has blistered
Into letters on my face
I have not held a baby
There is a repose in silence,
Joining hands we become
A chain of paper dolls
Rippling like hair caught in the current.

I am not a Chinese ant
You are not a velvet molar
A feather-edge
A carbuncle
A season
I tread crushed ice-cubes
There is no other side.

You tie yourself to me
We jump in a pond
Hoping to drown
& come up with lily pads in our mouths
Slimy bodies embracing rhetoric.