night comes on
i)
a couple of things I’m sure of:
the sea, green with envy for the smoothness
of the sky
the bulb of stubble you’d missed that morning
but as for why I came?
or why I thought you’d asked me?
I blame the sea;
the waves seem broad enough to take the weight of it,
and the weight of ships, on their backs
ii)
there must be better bodies than yours
where the nipples are perfect, and the belly
doesn’t inch over the rim
of the boxers like a reluctant glacier
there must be better kisses
slowdown, slowdown,
there must be better love than this
but all I’ll say for you
is that you took away desire
for the search
iii)
you’re asleep on the half-eaten sandwich of the bed
it’s the first of November, it’s 11:35
in the vodka-cheap light of a moon
made blurry from frost
you blush and shake your feet, as if there were a dream
of dancing inappropriately
there is nothing new to say about the sea
* Andrew McMillan splits his time between Lancaster and Barnsley. His debut pamphlet every salt advance from Red Squirrel Press is reviewed on this site.