Listen, I am touching
myself to sleep
with slow
fingers
the bed creaks and,
in the late afternoon
people are saying
goodbye to one another
on the street
corners.
In my head I am writing
a letter;
clouds move through it
a mob of pigeons
and across one corner of the page,
a strolling couple.
All day the stories
you told me stumbled like children
sleepwalking the endless
corridor after a nightmare
tears running through
their bunched fists.
I try to re-write
them -
the child is never
hurt
the neighbour does
not call the police
your wife greets you
at the door
smelling of lemongrass
and ginger.
I have used up my happy
endings.
Outside the street
lights go on.
My grieving fingers,
never wise,
are infinitely
patient.
