The boy with beetle feelers for fingers
says the sky is a spectre that haunts the land.
He claims in another era they were best friends
that used to kiss whenever the universe slumbered.
Then something invented grown-ups and kisses
had to stop. And the horizon got sad and snagged
itself in the mouth of a polar bear bigger than Earth.
Now, when the creature coughs, blizzards gust out.
Beetle feelers fingers boy also has a volcano tongue.
When he whispers stories to the listening gloaming,
my gaze flakes into orbit, flurries around the bright tip
of muscle as it burns. The snowball in my chest softens.
Dissolves into a tarn full of thought-fishes that waken;
swim themselves fabulous among the estuaries of a body.