Not long after
all the gold bars in the treasury
would slip into serpents on the floor
and blood-picked apples would rot
in their wicker beds, dreaming

You were up to your eyes
in bookmarks. I stuck them
there, and then I wrote an illegible
poem. I diced a bored sentence
and glued it on the fridge-face.
Just behind, a nervous bottle of milk
sat, and hoped, and soured.

You couldn't ask me to explain
anything, I just wouldn't know;
I'd be like a moustachioed man
shrugging by a cart in some parched
other country.

So much more muddling
than language were your eyes
on the clock. We left before
it was too late- my shoes spilled
all over the floor. Later on
I dreamt of a small whale
in a tank, road-unspooling,
reams of loss.
I wasn't blameless,
I never was.

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