One thousand birds fret in damp trees

the leaves shiver

these fragments disturb me—

except for the repetition of the doves.
I remember your eggshell body

an odour of almonds

our words spilling

splashing white walls

red flagstones.
 Again and again you saw me leave

 when the steam in the kitchen silvered the windows

when the wine spread on the tablecloth.
This is not a sad story—

it is only difficult, and it does not end.
Later we said: we would spend the last of our lives together

as the rain pressed out the clouds

and continued its dull business in the garden.
Once, I saw myself, insubstantial as water

reflected in your other woman’s mirror.
Light blew in and out of the windows

your hand settled like an angel

on my shoulder.
Because we are never enough—

we repeat

over and over.
Slips of paper lie scattered at my feet. 
It is still raining.