Freshly brewed.

Fighting, maybe dancing.

Your breath in my mouth, just for a moment,
and that is how it starts. That and spinning.

We are close enough to count regrets, they say
we are dancing and clap along,
you say there's no driving before you've learnt how
and kick the air by my head for effect.
I'm on the floor, you say, nice try and aim
for my contortionist's feet. Skipping over you
my eyes are not off yours: what now I say
and you are weighting my silence, hovering
closer to the floor with every pass.

Cartwheels and broken noses do not do us justice but
are possibilities we don't mind from this position.
There are some who lose the will to clap along,
but, your leg over my head, all I see is your beard
and the lengths I've driven you to.