Not having written in a while the hand pants “it
hurts to make you heard” so in Winter I reduce their hours;
let them sleep in; moisturise and refrain from biting at the
skin around my nailbeds. I wear gloves.
Spirit level barred there is no way of making sure the
total accuracy of wine equality
in the economy of my home
in the company of guests
so here, I hope there is slightly more in this one –
that is a funnel down which I can filter today’s subjunctive mood –
now please tell me about my own day,
I’ll tell you how yours is going and we can relinquish
all personal responsibility for how shitty we’re feeling
[you know me well enough to put words into
my mouth, for example:] “Today my avoidance of simile
broke down
like I was – a child – bored with myself – a wind-up toy – so I
stood inanimate without pretence, unwatched, feeling like
feeling like feeling like
it felt honest.”
While you’re tucking your feet under my legs to tell me this
my tongue running the rim of the glass is more intimate
than all September. My morning choked up
in your windpipe is a diary I can’t fit underneath my pillow
your hand is one I can’t fit in mine.
