Will the black rain never leave off
                                                     its lashing?
There’s snow in the north-west,
fishermen are drowning in the east.
Not even my Japanese blanket can keep the
                                                            heat in me.
Won’t you reach, easy-peasy, for
                                                        the phone?
I see you, clasping your glass
of Roussillon red, delving into the dust,
singing a song about a diamond that wants
                                                     to be coal.

What passes through that skull of yours—
                                                     the rattle of me?
The ping? Uncurl your fingers, set me to
baking apple-upside-down cake, walking the roadsides
for a hedgerow bouquet of snowdrops latticed to
                                                     wild fern.