Are you in hiding? Becoming a recluse. Or that great word, a weird, are you becoming a weird?
Coffee rush. Sugar binge. Her texted image. Auto erotic response. Love is uncertain. Stop looking out of the window. Curlew wades. Where am I now? No muse. Starved of her legs and humour. Gull and oyster catchers bending, beaks in mud. Split logs with maul and mix with anthracite on the woodburner. Perhaps if the water tank heats up I’ll have an afternoon bath. Why did I write split ions. Why not atoms? Physics, chemistry. Chemistry of…not two people, destined to become the greatest lovers of all. You lay down together and you were the only people in the world having sex. Fucking slowly and with feeling. And the second time fucking hard so he would come. Waiting on Andy ringing. Given nickname of Sway. Swaying with an excess of alcohol. Move out from the city. Surrender the fifth floor apartment for a rural existence. Subsistence. Subexist. Clever Alice. Her word, not mine, Someone sends a mail asking what happened to the woman on the sixth floor. What do you mean? She’s out there somewhere. I know she is. Reply; I meant the follow up asshole. I water the seedlings on the windowsill. Used to paint in the shed. Abstracts. But now it’s a greenhouse for the seedlings. The Pot Noodle containers turned plant pots. Recycle. In the absence of love I thought I could nurture nature. Mizuna doing well and so are the nasturtiums. A little salad to accompany that lobster?
I’m not in hiding. I’ve just lost track of time and place. I saw you sitting on the stairs. I recognised your jacket. You changed your hairstyle but it’s just the same. Wrote a poem for you but I never really meant to send it. I found the envelope the other day sitting on a shelf in the woodshed along with all those rusty tins of nails and screws, the empty meths bottle and the orange fishing line. Pristine white dirtied by muddy fingers.