Bitter

This is the house, good as a shoe.

One by one

the dead years count themselves.

The words are old, the mouth

just goes round them.

She sings for the wrecked moon.

For love the miracle of touch.

All the miles go underfoot.

Too many trains, too many neons.

She sings for the coloured lights.

She is singing the one word bitter.

Grown with water in the cracks,

bitten into the roots of stones.

It wants to make everything dust.