The window square is turning black.
I lie upon you, drained and slack.
Already you are nowhere near.
Your fingers crawl across my back
and I am falling in your fear.
You are the cage and winding gear.

As helpless as a blinded hare,
I hear in gasps of undesire
advancing up the cellar stair
Hysterica passio mount higher,
and wish that I were anywhere
away from here and didn't care.

But on a counterweighted wheel
this rising drops us fathoms deep,
and I must search with you surreal
infected wounds that never heal,
until exhaustion lets you creep
into my arms again and sleep.

I dream I'm in the open air,
watching the bow-wave twist and pour,
with the wind's fingers in my hair
and the momentum to ignore
upon a barren rock somewhere
the siren call of your despair.


© Brian Fewster,
Published in Staple 32, Spring 1995

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