Poetry

Half Bound

I skirt along your chartered scars,
their daily gripes and irritations tamed
by the anointing presence of streetlamp sentinels;
but you are vast and as you sleep
darkness exhales, scattering your names,
and I am absorbed – lost within
fluorescent catacombs pulsing rampant laughter.
Faces flushed on gassy beer and pressure pump wine
fume wisdom, holding hands
they dance across blood and bile in the gutter
to a tune called this is the time of my life?
My separate steps break on the brick of your skin
that is not yellow; the shoes I wear are not red –
I would follow you still, before the house dissolves
but I cannot know your celebrated face, from my seat
on the blue route service bound for Halfway.

Emily Langton