the politics of whirlwind romance

[_swastika]

And, quietly, so very quietly, our people sleep on the roads, not like beggars, but like gods filled with too much champagne to fly home. They are like beggars, though, in a way, with silver coins split and shiny in their palms, currency for dinner, dresses, white spots where their hair used to be; and all this time, too persistant to flag my eyes shut, I walk. Tap tap, my feet beat the rhythm of a love note in morse, and I realise I am too blind for the night, too small to cry, and it gives me explicit freedom. You are around every corner winking the wrong way, and I will wink back, with my arms behind my skirt, for we are kissing in code no one else knows.

You hold tightly to the curve of my boot, and we nearly fall into each other.