The sky is wide open like one endless yawn, morning
eats up the whole day. Every meal is breakfast
and my body also is breakfast
and little white houses glisten like teeth. October
still has beaches. I want to call you from the bus
and ask exactly what in your house
you have moved or touched since I left it
eleven minutes ago. Yellow is the most poetic colour.
Yellow leaves are an expression of poetry
by trees. What you read
is not what was written. Who told you this season
meant chimney smoke, this year it‘s all about
football matches, and chocolates wrapped in foil.
There are clouds and sand. Where I left you,
you ended forever. What I leave,
I can never return to. Your lighthearted friends
alienate me by crying over nothing. I am stern
and take crying too seriously.
This season is a parade of coloured headscarves,
fresh chewing gum, coffee grounds. And sex
that is not over until we are both asleep.
The season of the weekend junket.
Eight new toothbrushes. You‘ll make me a list
of all your potential sexual conquests
for me to ask about later and I will lovingly
remember all their first names.
This season is under construction.
I return and recede like tide. I will not be finished
loving you until we are both asleep.
But it‘s so hard to relax. Your house is out
from under the scaffold, clean, smelling of candles,
bright cutlery on the table, a kettle whistling.
I will sharpen the back to school pencil
and write my name on all your furniture in the dark.