i was born today

into a world i had created

in past sleep somehow

emerging suddenly from the deep

warm depths of a womb

that was yours, ours (now

defunct). and barren was i

and dry as these lips and cracked

and raw. a sour umbilical

hacked with rust and blunt

lay heavy on the floor

among the detritus of

words (also ours, once)

of this, this

so-called poetry.

I crossed the river to see you.
Wild daffodils scattered the banks,
dotted the verge with evensong.

Under soupy clouds,
sagging with the weight of March,
we waited, hands clasped,
for them to burst.

this orange boy
on his orange bicycle.
lady lollipop. stop.

what, then, of this -

sliced in two halves -

a bloated grapefruit

afloat in a jar?

its sweet pinkish

flesh i mistook from afar

to be none other than that

of your great, swollen heart.

could you, my darling

before two bottles

of wine

take my hand and

hold it good

then close the door

and kiss me tired?

i really hope

that you would.

O

- against which

there rake

branches

that rust

and grate

into

frayed ringlet

curls upon

curls

across midnight

floor-board

slats

as cork or

chalk is

smudged

upon,

against or

on

which - this

stretch of

indigo

sheen - with

a cellophane

pallor

that gleams

as virgin tomb-

stones

of marble;

then hammer.

then chisel.

then name.

this bough-like arm is a man’s
clasped ’cross your
back.

the cellist strikes
his pose;

makes to creaking
strums as in manic
throes

of a furore, gentle struck,
framed in flickers of you

spitting golden blue hum
and plucked one by
one

through blizzards of spray,
as the bow’s

unfastened strings
snap from lash to
lash

and silently thrash
at this

arm, bough-like,
this man’s,
clasped.