Thirteen

13.

The body will wait,
weighted and forlorn,
drunk on stone, air on lung,
for some kind of lightning,
or door to evade again
those tethers of hinge and rust,
I could nuzzle
holly and teasel more
than human flesh, never been
able to work it all out
but your hands
no longer fit my hands,
my hands made
of green and wild
and those nooks
we laid claim to
between book pages,
in a rush to make
heroes of ourselves,
were never enough.
I'd take a boat,
I'd take a shed,
somewhere to hide my bones
and then, when I'm cold,
I'll burn through the notes
I took to perfect
what you needed,
wanted of me,
looking at me sideways -
there'll be smoke in the valley,
smoke rolling down our old street.