Thirties

  Your birthday came early;
  shoots and leaves
  from the trees in the yard, 
  fingers
  on the glass
  when we woke.

  Too drunk to fuck
  you watched with half-moon eyes
  sly from wine when I tried;
  the gentle thrum of cartoons through the wall
  a sad serenade.

  By late afternoon
  a storm churned outside,
  dark clouds burst;
  the moon
  a wink on the horizon. 
  You cooked eggs 
  while I slept
  the whistle from the kettle 
  shrill
  when it came to the boil.


Easter Monday

Every sound echoes, 
seconded 
by dry stone 
in reply.
Voices crack 
like shoes saved for best,
second skin blistering beneath first;
kissing warm tarmac
lips pursed
with every step.
  
Dogs 
chase their own tails.
Coffee pours and drinks itself. 
Pretzels, stale as the day
are thrown like rocks down throats
and
boats pass under the bridge
like cotton through the eye
of a needle.