Chris McInnes

Rookie (1988)


All of hands of tongue of talk; wanders as we walk,
hushed into whispers, etching the ether
over skylarking streets; - scratchy branches sleep
hunched – our voices tremble;
foreign languages call out of
foreign shops, signs.
My hand felt warm on the small of her back-
We stood tall, bottling laughter in ashen alleyways,
to remain ruinous to the gods of the night

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