A year’s impurities of lies and big promises –
the mind polluted – and things have changed,
the trick is changing them for the better.
On good days I won the battle of my weight,
and, knickerless, you shimmied into a tarty dress
that retold every nook and curve.
That was then, when there was everything to play for,
and this is now, in injury time, with the aftertaste
of a late sun like a kiss on the tongue,
and shoals of starlings scintillating against a moon-
slice in summery orbit, the sombre air fizzing
with wayward stars and ash, motes
from your leavings I haul to the bonfire
I put together (for this evening belongs to me) –
a godbotherer on land ripe for development –
shoes and toiletries, a double-sided mirror,
some bed linen, anything that smacks of you;
the piano taking time to burn,
to be played by the impatient flames
that familiar discordant, dissonant refrain
from the heat and light of argument. Inevitably
the fire, once spotted, like skip or a hole
in the ground, soon has everyone joining in
with bits and pieces, their own ifs, buts and maybes.