A bit after eight

We could be holding each other
or holding the other
or flying together
or staying in bed.
I could be cooking today
or you could be living tomorrow.
On your sill there’s no hate
no lack of embraces, or touches, or hands.
There’s a stubborn mosquito, an insect of sorts:
you tell me, I smile.
There’s something about you –
I’ve already said.
That cloud looks like a dragon, a church
or a wedding.
That dream looks like a handful
of heartache tomorrow.
You ask me, I smile, it’s nothing, again.
You tell me we could go, I start to imagine;
you tell me tomorrow we could be married
I laugh and you frown.
We’re so simple with faces, I know but a few.
You ask and I answer:
a whore
is a whore
is a whore
is a –
wonderful woman
after she’s eaten,
after she’s been given
coffee and fag.
You know me too well
I’m afraid, you ‘re dismissive.
You know me enough.
We could be holding the flowers,
cup them with nails.
I could be wearing them naked
tucked in my hair.
They could be wearing
my skin as a coat
I could be happy
when I’m growing old.


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