What volumes this understatement has been

And how often, I can remember, that it is not

Real. The supper is a hunted smile that accommodates all rotten meats

Until the tongue is a sensitivity of whims

Unfurling and churning bursting into performance

The iron oven is winter

My legs display themselves

Outwards

                                                                                                                           Outwards!

And watch a ball of iron screams

Become a symmetry – my failings

(I can never command you,

You and your hovering staircase)

A damage – the weightless gold – not daring

A dent, the kink in your root

My clocks unfold ~ bending ~ an imitation ~ of waste and regret

Into a ravenous after thought

Teething at the limbs.

How I think I would be lying if I said:

‘Your eyes are the bluest, I had ever seen’…