Wednesday, no complications

Polly Jean Harvey is singing of England and young men
            with rifles—it sounds strangely like
                        ‘iPhones’—you’re already
            spreading white sheets,
                                    placing too many pillows…

A full moon rises absurdly over the street’s stillness
                                    that Edith’,
                                                you ask,

            and there she is, turquoise in the dark, by the pot
                        of wheat-grass,

                        and in the humming fridge
                                    still enough milk for tomorrow…


Another Sunday arrives…

            …he writes to say ‘you frame contentment’
—it’s true, a south-easterly’s stirring
            birch leaves, bending the stems of young tomatoes.
Last night I watched you as you slept, the car speeding
            through darkness, the fun day gone (the lazy sun,
                        laughter of children playing)
night sweeping by, the moon hidden, not a star to see
            and you twisted suddenly in your sleep
                        as if something hurt or scared you

            —no sound,
                        but the motion of the car’s tyres,
            and beyond your face,
                        silhouettes of trees
                                    so dark against the dark sky

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