Perihelion: An Online Journal of Poetry and Mayhem
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Martin Harrison


The perfect touch of air
air everywhere on the skin
warm and complete
rock and dynamic of it
wary as a barn swallow skimming water
which then dips (a micro-second) for a taste
almost like not touching it's so light
wind-wrap of wings over the shimmer of it
the dive's instant entry
out of the flattening glare into night
- an upstairs room filled with fragrant hay, January’s glare screaming outside -
- stillness swirled like a manta-ray darts from its sand-bed’s camouflage-
air which fills me, air which holds me tight
meniscus stretching to infinity along an inland horizon
and those black shapes floating above the ground like scribblemarks
are trees The perfect touch of air
on a road which keeps on playing
playing out playing out
up to the point
where outcome is response
pressure and hold are both response
like expecting summer storms from here to there 
but words pile up in a way that this does not
what is it with words? they're not dance steps
no o - no they're not - o - o -
the once known birds land here again
and then clawed soft-footed animals leave their tracks
wind floats in parachutes of bladed leaves
green turning into red spotted with grubs
high up way beyond reach
clash of them like silk bristling against itself
so what else could it be making love with you
than some old song
"so good to be loved by you"
dark wind soon enough breathing in under eucalypts crammed with night
your tender kisses fill me with desire