Television

He answers

Without looking at
her

His jawbone working

Like a
tyre in mud

Eyes hooked

By the
glowing tides

Of fishes

In
their
bowl.

-

Later

He
does not answer

Wrapped

As a
commodore by his ship's sail

In the regal purple of
convulsed bedsheets

Chin
wet

Eyes open

Looking without
seeing

Wasting the dizzy
moon

Of a halogen globe

She
calls again

And the murmur of repeated
stars

Rises through
floorboards

Seeping into the bedroom like
mist.