Two shorts

I spies

They keep the spies alive, twisting and twisting
each secret a seed suspended in paper, as in a pomegranate
or documents pulped in their waterproof cabinet

The bell rings again for a reprieve
each to his corner, where cucumber sandwiches
and Fritos are laid out for the eyes

Spying of course is a bad habit
but so is beating up people you love, and
whose hands haven't stung like a hand-baller, at least once, at court or in an alley?

The moon, a fresh-faced country, which has been rocked, socked, bruised
and abused so many times and for so long
that its blue eyes shine with what? Character?

*

Through the passes

In our mountain kingdom our mothers kissed us goodnight each night
and the sun rose very early and set at 3 in the afternoon
and hair-growth was a hieratic pastime, like musical theatre
and bad humours were dispelled by ostrich feather
and rose-red rubies fell from their lips
and their hips were pitted like the ancient fortresses scattered across the passes
and life was not empty with hurrying but rich with serenity
and restrictions on foreign currency had an average breadth of a smile-and-a-half
and you and me were plenty
and we weren't worried about our futures or pasts or what we had or hadn't yet done

and the devil-dancer's skirt flew skyward as he spun, and
we could see his armpits through his sleeves, which were billowing
like pajamas hung on a clothesline, or a full and righteous life.