Reaching out is all we have left to remind us our arms are made of connective gold
My tendons to your tendons to my joints to your bones…
To the white round metallic of tonight.
Sure , there are other things. Dreams.
Precarious memories. Leftover music. But the pulses never stop.
That rhythm right inside the skin of my wrist
As I’m trying to resist the blood flow from my hand to yours
That voice is coming from somewhere inside us, just another mystery of the blood
Foreign black gold, a liquid I don’t understand, never tasted, never taught
Yet it lives on my tongue
Within my continent. Within the structure of earth I have become
I have always been sand, and bush, and water, and mud
I have always been copper…and at one point I must have known that
Because every time I speak, there is an extra echo