Untitled

Sometimes

    the gospel choir

         in my head

              is a land snail

                   tucked neatly in

                        its ammonite house.

                             Sometimes

                                  it’s a lightning

                                       storm

                                            bursting from

                                                 my left amygdala.

 

There is a look

    in your eyes

         like wrought iron

              when you turn

                   my fingers

                        into bedposts.

                             Sometimes

                                  prayer

                                       is a smile

                                            pantomiming

                                                 as fear.

 

I sleep

    differently now,

         peel myself

              from your shadow,

                   open the fridge.

                        There is a light

                             shining down

                                  on the peppers.

                                       The bedroom door,

                                            open all night,

                                                 is winking

   

at the living

    room window.

         Street lamps,

              engine revs

                   pour in like

                        a glass of milk

                             from the fridge.

                                  When you wake,

                                       you will reach

                                            for me like

                                                 a glass of water.

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