When I am little in mind
or little in forgiveness...

I can hardly stand to watch, most mornings,
her buttering crispy-black toast, scraping off...

Why, your hair is forever a storm.
I do not own a mirror...

Moving, I stumbled across the mug you
always insisted on having your tea from...

You think I dont know it, but amongst
Your greenhouse kisses you scent of something else...

I went to the station where the rain was
pouring, turbulent, seven years old...

In glowering
wind, by rusty swings...

I held your hair when you painted the sink with
Vodka-flavoured sick, and tucked you in...

Under an oak tree I sit
with you in summer...

If you were a planet, I bet
you would dance around the sun...

If you think I will wait for you here
beneath this rain-soaked parasol...

The sweet stickiness of strawberry jam
was the air of the airport, and on...