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Holopaw
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Boys On Motorbikes
Thoughtless thrumming his waistband,
thumbs hooked in belt loops carelessly,
gently steering from the hip,
winding through the canopy.
Soft shoulders and swatting pines,
the canopy closes in,
chain kicks slack and useless,
tires carve crescents in the grass.
'Haven't you seen enough to know for sure
to look for me. Oh, Honeybee.'
'Haven't I seen you on the backs of motorbikes,
whirring through tunnels into the prickly light,
past the lava fields, through the lemon groves,
bare legs kicked out from the sting of chrome?
Haven't I seen you on the backs of motorbikes,
head tucked just inside the roar,
in the stillness between his shoulder blades?'
...hold this hollow so dear
just like the ones before.
Just like the ones stripped bare
by the swollen sea...
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these boys, so familiar;
these boys, so slippery.
Just like the ones you left for me,
oh Honeybee.
You have fallen to sleeping
in this brindled light,
freckles in blooms cascading
from pink shoulders into the white...
the down below,
the untouched touched,
these pattered down places, a mess.
I'm waiting for the rise to fall,
knuckle to your lips,
waiting for the rise to fall,
the fallen to rise.
Waiting by the swollen sea.
'Oh, Honeybee, please answer me.
Oh, Honeybee...'
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