BY CAROLINE BIRD
There is a corner of the city where the air is
soft resin. Step in and it hardens
around you. We made
the mistake of kissing there. I mean, here.
Our mouths midway
across the same
inhalation like robbers mid-leap between
rooftops. If kisses were scored by composers
they’d place the breath on the upbeat. Oh
God. Music preceded by mid-air,
when the baton lifts the orchestra tightens:
‘And’ before the ‘one two three.’ And
the sunlight is meticulous. And the river
holds its tongue. And your silver
earring steels like an aerialist’s hoop, caught
mid-spin. A note almost sung. Locked
in the amber of the and.
We just want to land or
be landed on.