Yellow

Everybody's speaking

with the same blunt tongue.

I haven't heard forked sexy French

since I left him

and the dark, angry hum

of our town.

Nos habitudes

me manquent.

Too much yellow

here; yellow signs, yellow street-signs, yellow sun-

flowers, not a burst of gerbers or the blue and white that cries,

"We are still outraged

and we know how to love."

I laughed when in the midst of it but now

I'd give all the yellow in the world

for a mean blue.

I miss you.

Everybody's speaking

the same blunt tongue.

I haven't heard our language

since we came down the mountain

with the angel at our back,

with angels on our backs.

I miss you.

Tu me manques.

I miss you.

After Swimming

Sweet drowsiness

coming out of the water

and that lingering smell,

that chill. Warm me up.

Old posters

cling to the lungs of the pool.

It breathes, don't-you-know,

in stills.

Then up

the street and new soaked leaves

cling to the brick-

work stairs and tiles

and the floor is lapping in slow, short waves.

They overwhelm these slippers

merely.

Up the street

to old films, favourites

of the staff: Monique, Enrique,

the smiling handsome one.

No name, no name.

Sweet drowse,

empty of the fight before I left and you

closed that door.

Each to our own vitro.

I'll kick in the womb and you'll

pluck out every hair to grow away.

We'll each be fish apart.

We'll each be born.

Sweet drowsiness

and that lingering smell,

that chill.

Toast to the New Year

Written months ago, but I just got around to posting.

Here's to the taste

of a cigarette I never smoked

and of a drink I didn't

and of the fruit you ate on the way.

To the bruise on my knee

and the dust

and the cold cement floor.

Here's to descending

below the tumult

into the upper deep,

to voices muffled

by a floor over our heads

and heeled footsteps

speaking above us in code.

Here's to the length

of this house, its depth,

its hiddenness.

Here's to cracks

in the foundation, and where do they go?

All the way,

through the centre of the earth

where it's too hot for words.

Place your palm on a weaker point,

and wait for the heat,

though you may be imagining this.

Nevertheless.

Here's to leaving

my mind behind, on the surface,

when I opened a door.

Here's to stairs

to the cellar

that only ever go down.

Here's to going down.

Here's to the New Year

and the taste of a cigarette.

Orchids