Traveller.

My Joey, I have removed my fingers
and my hat.
You, under the tumbling light,
and I bathed in the damp residue, are stained
where neither seems to fade
despite an ageing frame.
We seemed to sleep through the guitar induced affliction of affections.

And Joey, I rested too many weak feelings heavy on your toes,
like books.
You trapped me between a wall
and the pulsing of your chest,
resting quietly, more quietly than mine
despite the resistance of sense.
We slept, all the while, with your fingers at my throat and my fingers in your bones.

Dear Joey, now, I imagine you lightened
from bouncing.
You are merry and sober on tenderness
and clean, freshly-bathed, feelings
lift you, with ease. They accept their need to change
with each passing season fluidly.
Still, we sleep on the backs of my dreams and in the burning heathers of England.