There Were Two of Us This Morning There were two of us this morning And there are two of us this evening, And we go on because love is two, Two people, the two of us inseparably so. A doubling that is not a doubling, Not a double presentation of the same, But one as supplement to the other. Neither one nor the other, but both, We are Two, one along with the other. Love is Two and this is what Oneness really means.

A Dark Illumination Once again, we are here, as we are on this day every year, two hearts lit up with pain. And as day falls into night, a little candle illumines this dim corner where we half-appear. And every flicker, like every breath, is a discrete sensation of hurt, one after the other. It is always the same. Her sitting there, Me sitting here (still wearing yesterday’s shirt). Look at the light. How can a flame smaller than a baby’s fist,

The Darkness of This House Making his advances in tall steps, Davie marks Suzie standing small at the kitchen sink. She drops something, holds still her breath. ‘No-one’s gonna listen to you, Suzie, and that’s a fact’. The ugly brown voice of a drunk scrapping for a fight. From him bad odours rise, smells of fish and river foam, tobacco and beer. He picks up a carver, puts it down. ‘So don’t even think about it’. It is evening, it is hot, and a dead carp’s eye looks up at Suz

Pictures of Eve I Adam cultivated Eve by swelling her belly with something so potent that it could only have come from the stone of a forbidden fruit. II Eve was striding the earth when Adam emerged from a black gap. Six days passed and earth was reduced to a pile of newsprint. And Eve tore her clothes and made for herself a garment of lamentations. But Adam, sated and pitiless, scoffed her beneath the absent apple tree.

in your eyes, the sun in your eyes, the sun is dazzling white, the wind shifts your scarf, blows through the gaps of your coat. for me, nothing shines or moves but the tall candles swaying. the song of the dead plays on, the music of ghosts in the choir stalls. for you, it is not the dead that sing, but angels of light hovering over the water, the spray of white ocean on their wings glistering. in your eyes a reflection of the light in the window, the same light that hits

It Is so Sad / the Way Things End It is so sad the way things end like a when a plant dies and dies in a black corner and you’re done for. It is over like the end of summer. The green has dried up and the stalks refuse to dream. This is the death of light, I said, as if quotes were facts or neat sums on a blackboard. The world snaps shut, silence seeps in, lighter than air, colourless and tasteless like carbon monoxide. In here nothing moves except the shadows on the curt

Penelope Penelope weaves a boat of sweet songs while beneath her bibulous boozers scratch beer, play dice. “Declare his bones and suck mine,” they joke (not joking at all). Time turns to dreams and honey-thick shadows hush the spot where black snow falls in streams of light upon the head of the stranger standing in the archway.