Wednesday, February 13

Eye

the block of flats over,
the fire escape door
open in nightly draughts
open mostly in thursday,
expecting friday,
our lover goes
o’er breached doorway to
strand liquid love

and,
dazed in orgasm’s leap,
pass out the
string of unmarried visitor-hour lust:

‘fuck’;

when I have a cigarette
in the passing flightless times of
thermometer drops,

they argue, to be sure, she—
‘you never
fuckin look me in the eye’

& absolutely—

‘not even now! you fuckin
cunt! what’s
the fuckin point? you’re
always fuckin
drinkin n juss gettin drunk
doin nuffin’

did he not argue? but silently
said yes (yesyes)

and door slamming after door slamming
while his car outside parked
in dew sleeping on the final
week night

on sunday who but he strides
up the drive?
with two bouquets, colourfully,
bubbles baubels of pink,
yellow
white
premium florist prices,
there in each hand.

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