Night is a windy cliff I’m crawling for the edge,
the city below vertical and frantic.
Beyond, the crescent of beach, the sea where you are, baiting up.
You cast and the deep tugs the glossy line in your fist, tugs down
the glossy smile of moon, thin as a slice of honeydew, a pearl hair-slide.
Your face is every window’s face.
Your face is in the glint of the sea.
You are a fish, a scaly flash I have to crawl out of bed to catch,
moon-juice licking the edge of everything.
Rain comes and goes or comes and stays and goes when you least expect it.
It is the coldest winter I can remember. Everything’s wet.
I hear whispers and hail, wordless and urgent,
the tin of our roof, our window-glass. Even the cat leaps from the walls.
Every part of my body hurts.
I have become the sound of a walnut shell, a thread of seaweed.
I scuttle across the night-time floor, open and close my limbs like scissors.
I wake the neighbours.
Christ, if I can’t ever hold your hand again, I’m done for.