if a violet sky night
I strive to catch your name in the breeze
hold it like a child
or a half-finished song

the only touch to start
is mental, feel you in my vessels
and let my lungs bathe
in the promise you spoke

is this electric or just
ourselves getting used  
to new furniture, fruit and yé-yé
but Christmas not for months

by twelve we beg
to crackle with anticipation
a tear stain on an open window
one of us sockless, bleary-eyed

oh let me breathe you in
you are not the sort of flimsy thing
to be hung slack behind the cupboard door

but to be worn
even if holes interrupt your skin
or a merlot stain looks like dried blood

on the front
but believe me when I say I might
need this more than what I thought

I might have needed before
so please let me hold this hold you
inhale you from the collar and down

the cosy black sleeves and maybe
that’s enough to keep me breathing in your arms
I want to know a little then a lot and start over again

Because Mondays are
bulging bowls of satsumas,
first nugget of sunrise
or an apostrophe of flame,

and Tuesdays are
a row of blooming hydrangeas,
tall glasses of blueberry juice
or a last swatch of sky before night,

then Wednesdays are
a chubby lavender bush,
Parma Violet streaked teeth
or punnets of plump plums,

so Thursdays are
a pile of squashed rubber ducks,
frozen smile bananas
or the hemorrhage of an egg,

but Fridays are
a grass clippings mountain range,
eczema-skinned avocados
or skinny grasshopper limbs,

whereas Saturdays are
a ladybird’s speckled coat,
spoonfuls of pomegranate blobs
or a mushroom umbrella,

while Sundays are
a snowman’s **** belly,
globes of vanilla ice-cream
or a candle’s last word.

Atop the barn
a plump flicker
on two legs,

almost rusted
but for a monochrome
wing, a reversing

arrow. As it hops
along the felt,
a glimpse of its

taupe cap,
a sort of chain mail hood,
then a piercing

chirrup, a ripple
of giggles into the air
before the flight departs.

****
a finger on glass
as two animals

in the tank
begin to dance,
sepia tong-like claws

moving every which way,
an aquatic side-step
or frenetic tango,

slimy bodies
as though mossy rocks
come to life

before settling again,
their pin-***** eyes
on your giant irises.

Getting back into the car
after buying
cookies from Asda,

a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it
little bundle of brown,
there I say, on the fence.

Marbles for eyes,
tail like a question mark,
hair the shade

of twenty sunsets.
I point it out,
body half-bowed

as if to whisper hello
before bounding away,
swallowed by the leaves.

On the ceiling
or creeping out from behind
the radiator,

six brittle legs,
a body round as a
black Jelly Tot

or a miniature cylinder,
just enough to make you          jump
or eject

a shriek from your mouth,
this one double-clawed
creature you scoop up

with a cup, delicately
in case of a sudden scuttle, pop
back outside among the marigolds.