The creases at the corners of your eyes and the smooth
oleander mound of hip are what I miss the most.
They are a kedge to me.
This new house and you not here long enough to have left
any forensics, siphoned away without cloture
(necessity devoured you),
my latest little death an umlaut above you
and me knee deep in wish bones.
You can hear the train from this new house;
I listen and the fences widen and the charcoal night
seems like an emancipation –
a terrifying freedom like the dark wardrobe I hid in as a child.
I feel the cuffs of coat sleeves lift the
down of my cheek and long to be found.
The animals have their favourite spots
squared away in this new house,
marked off with tufts of fur and fine scent.
I have hung pictures without your consultation and torn out
the old vegetable garden, coiled like braid in the corner of the yard.
I read poetry and buy books and in the evening
when the sunset hangs burnt over the eaves,
I smell the remnants of the last ruined words we spoke.
I smoke too much. I drink beer.
We ask: ‘Does separation suit us’?
You are working hard for this new house
and not living in it. Peaceful, untroubled, devoid
of voices that touch. I am worried your favourite spots
in this new house may be obsolete.