The world is a bathroom window

7am. night going stylish
with a little edge
of purple, like looking
round at landscapes
in which mountains
rise from mist.

I walk into the garden,
cupping a hot
mug of water.
it’s december. there are no
flowers now. no cats
or any blue birds
flashing around
between grass stems.

the world is a bathroom window.
the mug steaming
in the stamping breath of horses.
I pass it over the wall
toward the car
and to my girlfriend.
she pours it
to knock out
some frost.

All fine

in my stomach,
and there is something
sticking there;
wet leaves, rotten
to gutter, wracked
with sick brown rust.
pressing with weight
and the weight
of hot rain. something
stuffed down chimney spouts
and flapping against
a fireplace. paint cracking, hinting
at shifted foundations. I pause
in my fretting at messages
to say things are
all fine, all fine,
have a cup of coffee
and a sandwich – get out
a few minutes
and smell the air
and weather. life strikes;
I fall like a tree
and my roots
drag the earth
up behind me.

Cemetery

first, let us begin
with a collection
of the names:
the rubbings in charcoal,
scrubbed off the cemetery
walls.

all along the windowledge
the skulls of flies,
starved
and battered
by freedom.

two jackets on the door;
the backs
of different cows,
and there’s the shoes as well,
six of them:
that’s three more.

in the fridge?
we have turkey slices; cheap
mulched bird – could be anything
up to a dozen –
and a packet of bacon
well past the sell-by date.

my sink
has been bleached recently
and I’m on antibiotics
for a cough
which hasn’t cleared up.

if animals have souls
then I’m a murderer
and that’s not even getting into
the trees felled
for the furniture
and wood pulped
for the books
and magazines
going sodden
and mildewed
by the toilet.