Creep between burnt-out schoolbuses and the dripping
February hedges, their coffins cocked and
At the ready. There is no going back. This minute
The undercover gardens on Wing Road grow cold
And bright. My nightshade cat scratches to come in
From the chill. The day opens before me its blank page.
We sit across from one another
in front of the fire, the big logs
clicking and hissing. Outside
is bitter chill: branches stiffen
grow brittle as crystal. You’re
sewing a skirt, your mouth
full of pins, your head swimming
with Greek and Latin. You frown
so not to swallow any pins when
you try to smile at me
slumped under my TLS and bewailing
the seepage of my days, the way
my life runs of like water, yet
inexplicably happy at this moment
balanced between us like a tongue
of flame skiving a pine -log: seeming
to breathe, its whole involuntary life
spent giving comfort. This
could be a way to live- nothing
going to waste, such fullness
taking off, warm space, a fragrance.
In plain matter of fact it’s
the sight of you bending to baste
the blue skirt before you pleat and
sew the waistband in, that enters


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