I’m full of limping metres, halting rhymes,
just a jingle can I make my way
to him who married her, trick this skirt
into a jaunty lilt
To make things better, make him want to
take her into and keep the rhyme on
like a tight black dress, here, where it zips straight
up – ouch his love
Drifts away and circles back again – it’s a kite,
but I’m not holding on anymore
to black butterflies, old letters, yellow pictures
of them I loved so deeply
When I smell him in all the air, salty man
made of stones buried in cold water
O young husband, O black dog,
O green rainstorm, O tall fire
in the fireplace.
In bed I pray one thousand prayers for you
that want to go from me, for you that may return