Recitation

I cast about for something solid
to hold onto: to read a poem to
an audience of strangers. Stanzas
once crawled off my fingers like
many-coloured daddy-long-legs
now need only tumble off my chin
like chestnuts, like iris-eyed echoes.
Their fingers press innocently on the
salmony skin of the people who listen,
willowy and bent awkwardly in places
they were meant to be straight.

You've come up behind me so fast.
I can't find my feet. They stretch out
as pulp and panic, searching for the sand.
Salty and grey-eyed you tug at my hair.
I won't get over the bruises for weeks.
I laugh in a crowded hall, the cherry and
bold of a poem hot with lamplight smoothing
my skin like bread in an oven.

(You've come up behind me so fast.)