We are two strangers in this mouse hole with
only bones of tourists to nourish us.
We dig through stone until the chalk chokes out
all light, a ceremonial landscape
of darkness, our silence is a sentence,
a jumble sale of nouns piled up amongst
soiled clothes and earth worms. We dreamt of a night
full of emeralds and gold Christmas baubles.
Our tattooed shut eyes are an incubus
and we two are life coming into this
world from under your feet. I am a dress
extra in this act of creation, she
is the consort of this black earth’s sighing.
To breathe true life we have to go upwards.
Grant Tarbard is the author of the newly released Loneliness is the Machine that Drives this World (Platypus Press). Follow him on Twitter at @GrantTarbard.
Your One Phone Call 