using my computer w out the burden of her life last night I described it open a circle she kisses my knee its life that is my name they thought she had a lot I think it’s enough I mean it’s astonishing if I had (his) I could feel everything but as it is I know what it is I love your lips.
Me? I get up early, see. I like the hour or so before the cars arrive, the city sleeping there over my shoulder, the early morning sky that is all mine, a few gulls spelling Mmmm out with their bodies. I make the most of that because, by nine,
I bear the city’s weight here on my back, all these commuting cars and belching vans. I hold my nose and try to keep control with traffic lights: they lean out of their windows to swear, to drop their rubbish, spit on me, to smoke a cigarette and flick a burning
bit on me. The days I like the best are Sundays, when I just lie in all day. The acupuncture of a gentle moped, or this hand-holding couple, afternoon, who linger at my apex, make my view the background to their love. I’ve heard it said
our card is marked, our day is done, what with advances in technology, hot air balloon and tunnels, gravity, but this is human, really, to look at the distance from here to there and say, well, what’s the shortest that could be? I do not like the nights:
the river’s tinnitus, and the low hum a taxi engine makes is like a dream of my own snoring. Worst are those who come to visit at that hour. Here, tonight, a young man walks alone towards my middle, dumb-belling a Scotch bottle underarm:
he reaches midway, looks down at the river, then clambers over, stands there on the ledge and holds on tight. I feel his warm touch there. Oh souls, believe me, I’d never let go if I could choose. I know by heart, exactly what it is to just have too much weight to bear.
In the woods at night men are fucking amongst the gorgeous piñatas of the rhododendrons, the avenue of cool limes. By day I walk my son down the secret pathways, smell the salt rime of sex on the wind, a condom glowing with blossomy cum, knotted and flung; I bury it gently under the moss with my boots. I envy them, these lovers, dark pines beneath their knees, the tarry earth opaline with the desire paths of snails, fallen feathers in the dirt like warnings. I know those days of aching to be touched by no-one who knows you. After he was born I wanted nothing but the wind to hold me, the soft-mouthed breeze coaxing my skin like the grass from a trampled field. How heavenly it seemed then, light shafting emerald through wounded leaves, the woods a church, we its worshippers, and all that sex - freed from love and duty - like being taken by the wind, swept from the cloistered rooms of your life, stripped and blown, then jilted dazzling in the arms of the trees.