Invocation

Your coming is dust on the tongue.
A stranger's cough in a
room booked for one,
a hollow note; swallows
swarming
over larch tops. Stop!

It's only
the wind,
birthing quick limbed shadows,
unshelling
death from a Suffolk spit.

But I'm ready - reckless
even,
like the penny whistle's breath.
Ready to
compound its crime
I count your name


three times,
three beats from the looking
glass.
And in her pool,
a drowned fool - skin ripping
back,
raining claret and putty
in the en-suite
bath.