The wet heart of the weather
the still part of the air
the soft part of it
from a heavy beat a tremor
stills shoulders dragging sweat
bodies in the same wake
bodies the lines of you
vortex only here
is there succour
me whipped
in storm centre
where locked by your eye I grip
your arms and endure
the speed fades
a notch above
nothing
you look at me
and you say
nothing