On the nature of love
.
Harbor suspicions as you watch closed eyes.
The water glugs beneath the ice, extras
act out the dream, and through the mouth's entrance/
exit an aerial procession slides;
recurring words, years reckoned in street signs,
buses that go zigzagging eastwards-westwards
across the nights, and on disordered bedclothes
the blinding signals drawn by motorist's lights …
… You've not been here. You lie here now, but that is
soon to be just a recollection. Therefore
intensively interrogate the hand which
recently moved as yours: you cannot ever
be sure who owns the body lying latticed
by shadows from the drapes, the stranger.
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