Window Pain Not a paper bag Or a terracotta mask Can erase this face, Or misplace The dug-out lines, The outlines, the valleys sketched Like map markings, marking my skin. Or the thin Unconventional smile, forced from A gully of pain That rises to the tip Of a pin like nerve
To my lip. Does this body deserve To mask these aging bones
With leather skin Smoothed out, Like putty on a window pane With pain.
Or will night, When dusk coughs The light from the sky – celebrate, and wait until the moon is a silver eyelash on a violet sheet and the self – erased.
The Curtains twitch.An ambulance passes. No siren. No need.There’s a hush -A breath Held harder than a hiccupAs silence swellsInto the four corners of o’clock.Through the letterboxA whiff of kippers;Of soup and salty socks, sinkLike a stain into embossed
Net curtains and settle. Settle.A beat -A tick of life – A wave from a crackling stereo;and the Corries pinch the spaceBefore the light-bulbs blinkAnd press the night like putty-Into the lips of the gardenBehind the disinfected wheelie bin
And the whittled bird boxTomorrow waits.For news and for open blinds,For fresh pheasant, hung dead
On a hook by the washing line,And footsteps – And an old manCarrying a loaf of bread
In a crumpled up carrier bag.The curtains twitch.