Love is not consolation. It is light. (Nietzsche)

End

These are the messages we leave:
paper feathers to the wind
that say in abbreviated code
all the things we cannot say.

I am having to learn our language,
these words of desire we press
upon finger and thumb, scan
with curious intimacy in public spaces
and return.

This is our touch, the body's union;
our sacred dance.

(taken from Byron Makes His Bed, my latest collection, released October 2006, available from Wild Women Press)