Pinocchio’s first date

Without strings decisions meander

into the darkness, twinkle as if a mirror

is behind each thought reflecting that

which lies behind. A key might be better,

turned by unseen hands so the coil is set

free and decisions spin to the tune

of burning rubber. The ballerina dances

in her box, in permanent night, waiting

for my call. I can picture her lips,

her small breasts and thighs more advanced

than my desire. I cannot dial the number!



I have splinters in my heart, my lips

are chewed by teeth holding back the words

I want to whisper. I can smell her ears -

their secret wax ready for my tongue,

a seal stronger than any kiss.



Her music haunts me.

The Hurdy Gurdy heart thumps.

It is a large step moving from child

to holding the ballerina’s hand.



Her eyes sparkle like light caught

along the edges of a serrated leaf.

I feel the future autumnal flutter

in the diminishing space between my legs.



We are an ocean pulled

by the memory of single cell moons

towards infinite repetition.