Second Sight

Lying in the unforgiving morning on a low bed

(a year later – packing up –

I found I had been lying on nothing

beyond the rented mattress

but books and old newspapers)

as he lets himself out the inner door

of my flat then down the flight of stairs

with their threadbare carpet.  Listening

in my pit for the final

click which has been coming

since the beginning of our spiralling

arguing.  Still my mobile will call

me to call him – to take his leaving back.


A week or so later, I do not know

my life is holding

you in a corner of the bar

where I am being out the house.

Had I seen you cradling our baby

among the pints and dated clouds

of smoke, I might have done

something to upset the delicate

balance of our meeting which

as it happened, happened

right although all the way home I missed

the night’s enormity – crying (laughably

now) on my brother’s lurching shoulder.