Humming at the riverside, city across the waves hanging low
Lights stabbing across the thrashing water to slip shadows under our feet
Where they, teacher-eyed, observe our dancing and stalk us
We cause sand to leap out the way, feet stomping manic
To the intense chorus of acutely heated wind down wine bottles
Smoke couldn’t keep up with us all night and so wanders home
Some bearing a distinct scent that sends trees tutting
Ash diving to the sand where it rests, unfolding into nothing
Bodies sprawl on rocks and sand and blankets, floating
Burning so vital, those webs of pounding flesh and sounding veins
Throbbing, afraid of skin that might scorch them, but adventurous
Those ungifted with a human crutch wobble on,
Sticking to the corners in defensive huddles, cackling
Arms building platonic shields to avoid repeated scars
Moon attacks with full frontal nudity, no clouds-modesty is dull
As stars hang back at the dancefloor’s edge, drinks sipped tenderly
Humming at the riverside, we beat a clunky tune into the ugly hours
We are a nuisance, attacking the sea as it tosses and turns, trying to sleep
But summer brims over and we are sipping from the cup
Which floods so sticky onto our vibrant skin
Peter Beattie also goes by Moth, a product of their gender identity crisis. Crises, usually self-caused, are a recurring theme in their life and work, of which this is the first published example.