Stefan Parker




Your heart
is a foot pedal
on an airbed
pumping away,

as I feel your first kick
at this late hour.
My hand on the hillock;
a creeper on a gravid marble sphere.

Can you hear my voice
inside that colloidal world?
Was that a punch
against the dark cloud?

Our nocturnal colloquy
hastens into eruptive silence.
What nub enfaced the shell?
A shrimpy knee perhaps.

We exchange parts in the dark.
A string of berried vertebrae;
A knolled skull; a timorous elbow.
Only nature’s secret blind spot knows.

Over time there will be more
mute and balletic musculature;
but tonight we sleep as three,
cudgelling the dark for contact.



Stefan Parker: Born in Germany and residing just north of the M25. Daily practitioner of poetry in all forms. Once published fifteen years ago and never tried again. Fine-tuning the form ever since.

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