Evenings I stare into light
and wonder why I do not sleep.
I see the wonderful smoothness
of her sat on a windowsill
The cat which is next to her is
not quite with it. She cradles her
phone like I want to be cradled
she sits and smiles the internet
loves a good smile, and a beauty
is brought which justifies all that,
all the machinery of phones.
As if I could step through the stream
and into the darkened room, run
my fingers across her tattoos
Examine her eyes for weakness.
I imagine it would not be
there. The red new leaves of the oak
hatch from a wooden cocoon, where
ancient flooded mines make a home
for birds. We sit on the lithe bench
near rotten memorial blooms
and your shoulders are bright and smooth.
The real woman and imagined
are feathers of the same warm ghost
Silence as silent as rainfall
in the mid-atlantic on fire –
open up on puddles of oil
paint from a sinking container –
then see the faint rain start. Silent
as you, floating ten feet deeper
silence as the waves wash over
determined by ancient causes
of death, of life, of everything
else as you look up through the film
of skin on your face to see bright
young fish darting into the fire
between gulping breaths of water.
Silence as silent as cut rope
sinking into the depth of sea
beneath you, perhaps the last thing.
Silence as loud as thunder’s roll
which rolls on and on and never
falls to earth but holds the soft birds
in dark suspense on the ship wires,
drawn from this satellite footage
of the earth at night, on your phone
as you lie hearing nothing roar
louder each second each second