It's not often I see

you in front of me. Those heavy eyes

that shift from left to right

through public streets.
Back home, you tap the wall

with bare hands that slide

down and let you in –

tapping and spilling

into my private bathroom singing
You tap again.

Just the same, just

as patient.
Who knows what stirs behind

the splinters and wood grain

between us? Endless days

piled like knots on top of each other,

dry bird-bones, a bruised

apple, frayed lino.