in the basement i memorize your green eyes

that smile through the dark with lupine capture

on the northern motorway our hands do not pause long enough

to take hold

back at the shore on tiptoes i

step over the morning paper -

in the sink branches of cut hydrangeas with eyes to the ceiling

only just fit through the neck of the bottle

in room 301 your words tumble to your feet

heavy as the weighted bones of the street below

fifteen floors up and nothing is lost, nothing possessed or taken,

we’re the wandering kind

at the museum children fondle brittle treasure affectionately

on the aeroplane i study my hands, i cough, breathe and break

i remember your mouth as your song plays

on the radio

Rebecca Isgrove