by Eira Murphy

Lift the machine above my head
the sky into silver grids,
a handful of elastic breath and feathers.
Purr like my breath at night whirring.
They meant for it to be like this.
We sleep in tangled fluorescent light
sharing the crook of your arm.
We sleep with wax running down your face
in great rivets of song.
The moon rises, two doves unfolding
from my eyelids.
The sand dark with puckered seams,
minutes splintering.
They always had this plan.
Grip of the railway track on damp earth,
a flickering broken
wing like the lights at the railway station,
   breaking my train of thought and sending it