Diseases flake off the rain,
only sometimes diseases speak or blossom,
they are unerring in their denial of
any moment. I have to get away
from the road, I have to get the child to sleep,
wake the driver who clings to me like a falsehood.
A lovely photograph ripped the town in two.
On the edge of the tear, a descending
symmetry. An over-emphasised name, a false
stress from the singularity of the gap.
He felt cold when I woke him,
his skin had dated as fast as a catalogue.
I need to cover the toys, forget the dream,
tell the postman that I can no longer do
a thing with other people’s lives.
The rain shielded us from the first needless word.
Shadows piled up, one upon another,
sickness embellished everything. In the window I am safe
from travel. Air has grown numb. The shade grows within.
I need to plant night in a woman. I have to complete the circle.
So many incidental things. I have to tell you everything.