Wednesday, 13 February 2013


I dream you, and you come to me
intact, in focus, indiscreet, mouthing
the sweetest lies as if we cared.

As if, in fact, we might begin again
with needle-tracks and scratches down your arms
that might have told in drunken hieroglyphs

how heavy-shouldered I pick my way
through a night of empty forecourts,
back to the etceteras of passion:

the obligatory pathos of discarded shoes,
the glass of water juddering by the bed,
the face my heavenly eyes avoid.

Tim Kendall, “Hieroglyphs”