24 January 2012


and do not go from me she said,
and do not go from me though
the days tick off quick as a

she wraps her hands around his
throat, arranging his scarf
until it winds, blue-grey, snaking, below the
slate of his eyes, lash-fringed black

last night she dreamt he
died, and, with him, her heart,
lost like a balloon into the
blank copybook sheet above

the Grand Concourse, dissolved
as in a salt-sea, a bird-speck
against grey and
no one to be called at all

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