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

It’s impossible

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