these days the light
turns Jericho pale blue
she’s twenty and pure
as the shy new moon
 
and when the sky whitens
in the afternoon
they lie like split cashews
in an upper room
pretend they like poets
and talk of the Louvre
 
she longs for somebody
but doesn’t know who.

​Telephone wire chat
Fire, work: “Nervous, wobbly fun” 
Lilac-grey above. 
 

​ 
One fine day and the thread running through everything is pulled taut, all the patterns in perfect tessellation,
tin foil rock pools glinting in the high noon winter sun on the long descent to the beach,
the topographies of rocks under our feet, all the archipelagos of experience,
and the dog’s body a whole language of joy in the sacramental vitality of her movement.
 
Later, on the long train tracks that shudder and curve away, through the window, travelling backwards, pink clouds pillow themselves across the sky and buffer the chink in my voice that betrays at each departure,
each fraying of the long blue thread