Silly horse A random insight into the mind of someone who should know better

We touch fingers slightly too long

handing a glass. The hairs on his arm

mesh like breath in the hairs of mine

as we lean drunken.

I sit in the quiet sour boysmell,

tile bench between us sliced

exact as a pew’s ribbon,

a separating inch of leather.

We touch eyes too long.

Giddy as the plummet

into lager, I count the ticks

in his iris, yellow-brown:

ridges in a boiled sweet’s pout.

We walk too slowly home.

Breath-plumes mingling like the lint

in our handcuffing pockets

would, were they blown dandelion-open, inside out.