There’s a little bit of listening that has to be done under street lights
to the voice forever asking— has there been a death in the family?
May Day is over: vomit-smelling blossom, pale despite the dark
of plague-pit superstitions, has allowed the house to rot.
Be quiet. You’ll learn to unhear prayers for the departed.
Learn closed-curtain traditions. Taste funeral biscuits, burnt.
Exercise in the Fourth Dimension
Today my body is chattering unhappy
(promised walks, the other lies)
jiggles a leg like a warning rope
ready to climb, climbing…
Wants me to stop all the preparations
(just get on: work is movement)
but I've balanced the hours on my back
and am now too scared to move.
We dream differences
to who said what
the wrong time
could have breadcrumbed us home
in the fog-freeze water
for a thrill
of broken by-law
left them dry warm.