I want to exchange the weather
for something kinder. The clouds dilate.
Hail falls like tiny bones.
These are the days I walk through,
tending small ambitions,
the low comedy of us at home.
Sometimes I worry our charm
is stinted. If I tell you pins
lie under my tongue, there so long
I have sucked on the tang of iron
and thought it was blood.
We stand in the garden, looking
through dark glass. Air turns to winter,
light evades us. The moon
is awkward across the face of the sun.
(First published in The Frogmore Papers, No. 86, Oct. 2015)