for Sarah



Whatever lateness there may have been
entered from an odd angle -- perhaps
colluding with bad light to drain
all likeness from our faded landscapes.

Say it was evening's thumb-end smudged
your profile on the window while, across it,
a few dim birds flurried and scuttered
like anagrams which, try as we might,
we could not unravel.

                                               I somewhere read
Gwen John picked flowers (sanely) after dark
and plunged them in a jug beside her bed
to surprise their morning colours when she woke.

An early headlight lurches through the room
and finds you frowning, feeling circumscribed.
Gin brightens in the bottle.

                                              Under a microscope
I watched your blood dance once upon a slide.




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