You’re No John Dunne
Your interior’s just
overcast windows again,
out-staring icicle skies, blue nude trees,
and those same two everyday magpies
recall Corfu Durrell’s rapid Maltese crosses:
what even do they ever do? Bonded for life
you read and they grieve, while last leaves
still cling on stubbornly to Winter’s trees.
Dreaming not writing, your clock’s clucking,
discs spinning memories, vacuums flocking
like birds of a feather and you call this being.
Flea, your blood, it never will mingled be;
a spider between sheets one night did creep,
and as it bit into flesh, I heard you shriek,
it drank deep, it woke you from your sleep
put its poison there as you counted sheep
until with balled fist you clench and sweep
and hurled it blind against an opposing wall.
In the morning, it was there, small dead thing
clutching itself tight, the way dead things do
when all that’s living has been extinguished,
no fight left, a noble death, its last breath,
as somewhere inside your blood lies cooling,
thickens as at this window finds you brooding.
Between separate beds blood is never shared
then again, the truth is you knew it all along,
because face it, fool, you’re no John Dunne.
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