Angler Fish

Under glass you are
two pupils alive in the light.
I looked into you
but something fastened to the lips stopped
them from touching,
and I changed the lens to see
your smile, your teeth, your skin.

We could be deeper

into this something. So,
this time with your eyes closed
lean in.

My best friend is my neighbour’s dog

because he knows what I mean
when I say I feel like digging,
or I wish I had wings,
or woof.

At night he barks because he’s sad,
and his eyes won’t cry.
I turn on the kitchen light
to make him feel less alone.

And when he escapes the garden he sprints
like there will never again be anything
worth regretting
if we just run
for the rest of our lives,
and I like to join him.

But he will stay
if I ask him to stay,

and we will sit long into winter
wondering what it must be like
to know exactly what we should say
to each other.

– Inspired by the dogs next door. It’s a little different to the sort of poetry I usually write so, sorry if it’s awful!


In those atoms,
you burned up dying
to survive.
I tried touching the salt
on your lips
but missed and landed
on the ripped felt seats.
It’s impossible,
but I’m on the bus again.
It’s Tuesday,
and I see you, later,
making a pot of tea,
holding your trousers
around your waist,
shrinking into the armchair
of your first house-
love. You outgrew
the furniture there.
You outgrew me.
But I will pause with you
when you’re eighty-seven
and an armchair is all you have left,
and Tuesdays will be ours
to burn out together.


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