David Day
The Old Conceit
We float our bed unlike an ancient verse
a lovers’ bark. The load is we. The water
is the dark. Knee deep, she frees her clasp
and steps aboard for what’s to be released.
We go about convention, meet for other lovers’ trysts:
the rocks, the storms, the angles and the stars
are what they need to make the charted lanes.
They move cliche’s rigged romance, whilst
we disclaim their knot. Untied, we note the mark,
so ride our luck, a honeymoon transfixed above
an undertow; until the platform for our course’s
wit slows down and seems to bump the head.
Our hands go out and trail the dark. We hitch
the sheets for it is growing cold.
Page(s) 35
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