Where the Little Devils Live

There’s a devil in Tasmania
who spins my words around
hoping to trip
my tender lips
into a soft, wistful kiss.

There’s a place near Australia I won’t go
where the past hops along the lonely beat
of what’s left behind
and was never mine
to give or to receive.

There’s a bare shoulder here I won’t show
and a shrug to the secrets he will share
there’s nothing left
but a spun out past
and the promise that hope may appear.

That's where I spin my thoughts these days,
my dear.