Spaces

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 With the curling hands of the moorland breeze, 

These vast confines scoop me up sometimes, 

Transport me from our dozen or so 

Hoof-like rubber soles, trotting upwards

Gathering me into the breathlessness of this world -  

Bare skin against these brutish winds, 

Tying my limbs in contortions, bound cardinal east .

Crooked fingers tracing the horizon line 

And the all-consuming stars I imagine through daylight. 

Elsewhere, 

Constricting flows of bodies swarm me,

Pulling under my words and conversations 

To the tides of music plunging from speakers 

And dozens of tongues, inexplicably light -

Enticing the walls to align far too close to my chest

Heavy armchair stealing my breath, wooden. 

You pull me out, get me stuck again

Lost in translation from a single "Hi".

An echo settles back into my lookout, 

Oh! Please, sapping distance 

Come closer, clouds embrace me! 

A crooked tree in far orbit 

Allows my chains to latch on again, 

Lets me marvel at these constellations 

Pushing against the frostbit atmosphere 

From this high point, where I sit, and dream - 

Sometimes falling, as we stumble up the tors. 

A heat has gathered now, 

My blood pounds against the awkward floor - 

Let loose a hysterical throb, and silence. 

I move and watch through the congealed air 

Eyes stuck on the red of the dress 

(How couldn’t they be?)

It's so easy to talk, much harder to think 

Without my mind falling out the neat windows,

But I'm not even sure anyone else noticed 

I’ve been speaking and standing in circles.