Between the anticipation and aftermath,
the trickle of water and quenching of thirst,
between the wish and what comes out in the wash,
the seed packet and gladioli bloom,
between now, then and when,
all you know will vanish down the plug hole.
No matter how ripe the fruit in the bowl,
erotic the violets, erratic the stars,
at night empty rooms gather you in their claws.
Their silence licks you. All that is lost,
all that is botched streams into one strange image
in the mirror and wears your eyes.
Darker by the day, you feel a stranger
hover at the window, eavesdrop on your calls,
at your shoulder in darkened corridors,
head-bowed two seats ahead of you on the bus,
in the shade of the lindens and silver limes,
adept and ready, wearing white gloves.
On a bare wall the clock-face ticks.
That you were never liable is a myth
like easy money. So live accordingly.
The hours are long, the months disappear,
and the moment nears when he will come.
He will speak with your voice.
Only if you’re lucky will he come without hurt,
steal into your borrowed home
and lead you through this town’s coil
of limbs and longing, bear you through the rain,
along nameless roads to a green wood
whose river weaves its murmur with conifer song.
There he’ll lay you down in the riverweed,
clubmoss, hazel scrub, witch butter,
covered in a shallow night of crawling soil.
So make the most of your loan, though all that
is gone, or is going, will never let you go.
In our deaths our debt will grow.