The rain has made spots
on the window panes.
Now the long dish of gravel
and the almost-jaundiced shrubbery
are speckled, so maybe it's time
for your arrival.
You can dent the paving
with the soles of your old boots,
and watch the wall surge downwards
like the advent of absence.
Clock, stop your tick, kcit, kciting-
I see the crash is imminent,
reaching up for ankles to
pierce with dirty nails- my lips
are turning into petals stuck
in winter withering.
Maybe I'll peel the skin off,
pale white strip by pale white strip,
and maybe then I'll bleed,
red like passion, like
forget-
fullness,
and I'll arrange it like a flower,
like the weeds which climb my knees.
If you were here you'd draw the curtains
and tell me I should sleep.
