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
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—
over and over.
Slips of paper lie scattered at my feet.
It is still raining.
1 May 2018