An unusually hot afternoon in mid- April. We are in the garden, amusing ourselves in companionable quiet. You are happiest with the earth, bedding fragrant French lavender into its new home. You work carefully, tucking the roots gently into the soil with your bare hands, contentedly sighing every now and again. I sit reading nearby, cocooned in the oval chair with its thick cream cushions. My dress is the colour of clementines, and glows in the hot golden sun. The pages of my book breathe on the breeze and I slip in and out of the words; one moment Nietzsche and the cries of the neighbours’ baby the next. Its wails rent the air suddenly, desperately, and my heart jolts. I listen instinctively, waiting for it to be soothed. The hush comes quickly, in soft Italian murmurs that my ears don’t understand. Softly, softly, lullaby, hush my love, you need not cry.

Where are you going with this?
Your passion is caught in your beard
and she holds her breath,
you might just take it from her.

She is crushing on you:
it is easy to do.
Hungry for the stars
and storminess and the pub at 2am,
she will man your barricade.

Having told her what it is,
say the word.

He plays by his own tune, an inventor,
investor in himself.
To others he might seem like one at odds with the world,
but there are no odds in his world,
nothing to gamble or lose.

He is the solo player of his own team,
motivator, multiplayer,
bricklayer of his own foundation.
The harmonies of his life are rich and silent
scorching the ears of those that hear.

He sits alone but surrounded,
a thinker,
tinker of his craft,
weaving threads of agéd phrases,
polished relics, softening the edges.

He listens like a broken watch waiting for the minute,
the second,
but he is always second to those who shout or howl or cry.

A river runs through him.
Gushing the tide of humanity flows fast,
shaping those around him,
voicelessly moulding us into his works of art.

Today, I shat very well without noise and easily.
I shat thinking about you, and to be honest, I’m not ashamed anymore.
(Understand this: pretty boys also shit)
To think about intestines you have to understand that the blue ass of a Russian smells the same as a beautiful Peruvian soldier’s ass.
I get drunk and think about my stomach’s clay.
Sunsets.
Then, I realize an overwhelming truth:
Each morning I shit my heart out in pieces.

She wore the biggest sunglasses you’ve seen,
ever.

No sunshine in sight but that didn’t deter her,
never.

She thought the tinted lenses made her look smart,
clever.

Shrouded in mystery,
a woman with no history, she would wear her Raybans forever,
whatever the weather.

The lights are on
and I am home,
unfortunately.

There’s a
rap tap
knock knock:
someone.

Outside shines night
and birds sing silence.
The moment grows
and I cower.

Anger fills
and fuels the house.
Violence follows
like an erupting volcano.

Children don’t work like adults.
We have less to fear;
but ours is double concentrated.

There’s a
smick smack
crick crack:
was someone.

The lights are on
but I’m not home,
hopefully.

Here, is not there
nor anywhere
but here in
the sounds of the moment
we are here in.
Yet, here is also an echo
of a moment before
when here was not here
but there waiting
to be discovered by us
and defined in the borders
of our memories
as here, where
we heard the birds in the sky.
Here, is only here
to be heard by us.
For others to hear here
would make it there to us once more.