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.