I watched a film.
Came back, sat down, thought about poetry and hatred.
Air had been pouring into the room like pints of milk.
The window had frosted because of February,
And a thin yard of light was rewinding on the floor.
I undressed and washed.
I redressed and slept.
The moon baked my hands.
Out of the nodding oil picks,
Infertile waste whipped up
With errant winds and wheel beats,
He arrived like Sheba,
The room collapsed
To the size of my pupils
He ignored what home there was
And we spoke.
I called her.
She came round.
We fucked like the world required us.
With a pant for the morning light.