I Thought You'd Prefer Flowers

but the dahlias had choked

under an ice moon

and the first frost on the park

You can have this instead

a vandal’s valentine

written on a wall

under a street-lamp’s halo cold

Because the day’s eye

has closed.

Scaffold

The welder started

before it was light

indigo dawn crawls

around him now

He is making something

as the pigeons

take a familiar lap

of the domed sky

winged pensioners

they pick among the scraps;

a memory of rationing

among glass petals

that fell

when the brick was heaved

through the phone-box glass.

He is finishing something

where all else is decay;

sparks bloom from the scaffold

the morning is open-armed

and golden.

After The Last Fight

Alice sweats

in the steam from the bath;

black hair paints her cheeks

A bitter lover.

she threw her red high heels

at him

they landed at the foot of the stairs

Angry thud.

her lips are wine stained;

she pours a glass,

charcoal tears

from each brim-full eye.

she sinks naked

in the symmetry

of branding hot water

and glass-cold tile

to purify

crimson petals rise

to the surface

The polish

has peeled

from her nails.