To Be Dido
Curled up naked her secrets all displayed
by Christopher Woodall
eyes as wide as the horizon
where a black sun falls into the bay
watching you past her knees wisely
formulating a predictable plan.
Climbing alone to where she saw you last
her mouth full of words like stones
her body is the question that must be asked
and you stand upon the deck
winding a rope around your forearm.
Numbed, smoking at the wall unseeing
ruined for tonight, thinking
of a balloon‘s curse to be stupidly fleeing
only to fall down faded
and be lost among the other detritus.