Waving Up At You from Under the Ice

There goes the man with the golden tongue
There goes a ring with no finger on
And all the footfalls clash in phase
Silencing every move he makes
The freed dreams shiver through the sky
Wingbeats bending the edge of light
And all the painters stepped back and sighed
As all the colours in their paintings died
Something is tickling the teeth in my lungs
Death beds are warmer shared
Bodies move better paired
It feels like forgetting the words to a song
Floating down the delta hand-in-hand
Spinning through a ghost-stuffed hinterland
Waving up at you from under the ice I am
Staring up at you from under the ice I am smiling
There goes the girl with the golden eyes:
Glow fading between her thighs
Shrinking smooth as the newly-dead
Between the Rorschach prints in her bed
Silent footfalls cross the room
Battling the poltergeist in her womb
Windows rattling in their frames
Tapping out a Morse code of memories
Waving up at you from under the ice I am
Staring up at you from under the ice I am smiling
Must be that logic that helped you both sleep — some mathematical mendicant —
In watching that love drain as slow and as sure as the pump in your lubricant
Well, that’s kind of funny. Ha ha ha. Ha
How many pale hairy ghosts wriggling out of their clothes just behind that pin?
The cores of apples of eyes all chopped up, rationed out, and distributed?
Yeah, intimacy insurance is paramount
A black sliver shivered out of Danaë and right in through my spiracles and
Bedded down humming something soft and sweet in the branch of my bronchioles
It sang: «death beds are warmer shared»
Everyone’s okay; no, nothing at all is up
I think you should stop crying, your friends are looking at us
Your fingertips don’t feel the same
The corners of your mouth have changed
Waving up at me from under the ice you are
Staring up at me from under the ice you are… different