(I think) She Might Be Crying



The floor to ceiling hotel window is

A lidless, depthless, staring midnight eye

The bed’s reflection breaks along its gaze

Sheets rolling in a long, disordered line


Face down, the weave of hair conceals her face

As tattered heart’s words tumble to the carpet

I am complicit: dumb, and blunt and hard

Plumbing a womb of shit and barren darkness


Later: scrutinised by bathroom light

Sitting naked with my head in hands

Marooned in a field of arid, empty white

Revealed to be the object that I am


Next door: drooling, drunk and stoned and slurring

Maybe, words (I think) she might be crying

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