By | 18 July 2009

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.

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