sheets revisited

The bed hasn’t been made for days.

There are ways,
I’m told, to shake the torpor from the sheets.
The window’s dew-wet. You’re shut tight with the unsaid.
Books lie open on the desk. The shadow cast
By a sole silhouette’s incomplete.

Against the pillow a corner of toast
Floats like a ghost, a memory of the dead.
Coffee grounds squat in their cups, without
A mouth to smile once they’re cleaned up.
There’s silence, silence at last.

Remember the relief,
When, washed-out with grief, you could sit with a clean sheet
At your desk? Remember the sound of his laugh
The time a full glass of wine stained your dress?
Recall your glance from pillow to page, asking which is best?

Yes, love keeps you warm at night. But work gets you up.
That frown you wear’s what allows you to stare
Down the space in your empty cup.
The cup was full when someone was there
But the page was always blank.

Now the room
Is full. Look! Open books, a bed unmade.
But the odour? Sigh. It’s rank.
Love and work have come and gone
But you’ve got me still. You’ve got me to thank.

morning song

The dawn slips in as we’re sleeping. Now
We wake to an awkward elbow of light,
It’s grey. Your yawn is the cat’s meow.
My touch recites the lessons of the night.

Your skin is a poem I’d like to learn.
I’m dazed, amazed. I let the toast burn
And the coffee go cold. You fold the sheets.
We talk, eat. The pause is the phrase we repeat.

First the flesh feast, the break fast. Then we leave
For home, class. A squeal of schoolgirls on the bus
Crank up the radio and then discuss
The merits of “Crazy In Love”.
My smile is the scar of sarcasm withheld.
But when we hold hands I think
We’re children ourselves.

evening walk

We’re watching leaves fall into the water.
I smile, thinking lifestyle has won over nature:
We’re wrapped and warm in scarves and each other,
Those leaves should’ve died by now.

The moon looms over Ikea. I see you
New in the blue light of all we won’t have
The cradles and kids toys, discarded for love;
The rooms where the cats of our conscience prowl.

We walk home together as the image fades,
Through the fragile beams stars and streetlights have made,
A sign says: The Fire Brigade Office has moved.
Beneath we read: Burn, fuckers –you’re screwed!
You ask if it’s wrong that you adore this.
So close, we kiss. My reply? Mmm. Mmm. No.
Yes.

between the sheets

Lovers, sweetly sleeping between the sheets,
Be warm, open; curled up like well-loved books
But separate as strangers on shadowed streets.
Exchange for honest glances reverent looks,
Remember what desire love completes:
The search for knowledge, facts outside of books.
Be proud, precise! Recite: eyes, lips, heart, hand,
Hands, hearts! Eyes, minds, mouths! Meet. And understand.

Learners, discreetly sleeping between the stacks,
Be calm, reflective; like windows behind blinds,
Which, through those small smudges, scratches & cracks,
Show us the world. Call: Seek, y’all! All shall find.
Remember why we become scheisters, quacks,
Spooks, quirks? To learn the limits of our minds,
To know the shapes of others in the night
To see our sleep eclipsed by a lifelong light.

the anatomy lesson

i placed my faith in an anatomy lesson
a crash course in curves from a kind christian
who speaks her mind with her eyes, and tries
never to lie while she's lying down, whose
thoughts break the pool of her face in a frown
whose logic is cool, whose mission's to please.

an atheist, i'm not easily impressed
by the shock and awe of water from whine
but the fact remains that her leg and mine
make a cute angle, a crucifixion:
an astute comment on our position
between the book and a hard place,

she gestures:
"this is my body, and this is my blood."
there's laughter, water; a baptism in love.

between the stacks

we've found a space between the stacks
where our texts can't follow us,
where we're formula-free.

a mime of eyes and lips assenting
to a discourse of our own inventing,
a fresh philosophy.

now, when i'm faced with some equation,
your whispered words bring consolation.
they sigh: ' the only conjugation

that matters is to be .'

pantoum for a lover

It’s hard to accept: we exist out of context
Alone and denuded of names, dates and times,
Fumbling feebly from one misfire to the next,
Wondering if others feel the same.

Alone and denuded of names, dates and times
I lovingly, covetously, picture your face,
Wondering if others feel the same,
Wholly comforted by what’s missing most.

I lovingly, covetously, picture your face,
Pale as fresh milk, affectionately creased. I’m
Wholly comforted by what’s missing most:
You in me and me in you, every time

Pale as fresh milk, affectionately creased, I’m
Fumbling feebly from one misfire to the next
You in me and me in you, every time
Alone and denuded. It’s hard to accept.