It is late at night and the kettle is boiling,
a quire of steam fanning out in the white kitchen
you are holding me as if I were your girl again

It’s the house at the end.
White paint flakes off the front gate,
wood rots beneath.

Hey cat, you’re doing really well,
three fields stalked and only one to go.

. . .you’re swallowed whole
into this cocoon: pine-scent, antibac and the dry
whoosh of his heater – lean your careworn bones into
synthetic leather snug, . . .

My sky is a hole from which the bucket drops.
Like all heretics, I am put to work processing stones.

To impress you, I became

a seven-year-old son of Sparta.
A little hard man, crayon

marching down the page.

God had been playing computer games
for a chunk of eternity when he became aware
he’d left creation in the oven for a long time

The View From This Hospital Window

I admire an empty bench for hours –
then a glum couple sit to share strawberries.

He sees a stainless-steel spoon
burned off at the base,
a bunch of wild flowers dropped,