I am disappeared,
like the rain already fallen, like my neighbour
despondency. Summer, slendering
to a point untouchable; turning to a fist of fires,
a fury. Oh, the view from here. The river
spreading to the sea, the boozy backs of not-so-grand hotels.
And you, still and iridescent as an opal,
sleeping away the dusty silver of my morning. My beloved
mornings, where solitude is the silhouette of my husband,
where I am weightless for a snatched moment, where I
pluck the sun from nights full of arrows. Autumn,
your blade is my collar bone stuck out, the ridge of my pelvis,
my fingers digging in. I am not glad of you.