the first night is Chinese take-away in a dining room that we never eat
in again. the fire is unlit, its patience for winter is unbelievable. I
unpack boxes of CDs and place them in a contradictory mix of genres,
decades and even dates of purchase. you work on the kitchen and cannot
believe how stupid the cupboards are, where the hell does the fridge go?
in the half-gap we place a brand new clothes dryer, a white-goods knight
for the eternal damp of the valley.


tre e trenta
an unfamiliar hum
crosses the room


when streetlights blink out the last night is pulled over my shoulders.
I have cleaned the floors and walls, the trollish oven, the windows
muttering and cannot find the strength to celebrate. the radio (later
sold at a garage sale) keeps good company, as the BBC sends Noam Chomsky
across heavy waves, until it is finally switched off.


no ceiling fan
overnight sweat
sets on my skin


first published on Justin Lowe's Bluepepper blog

poet's biography ->