I slipped
out to the bins
on bin night
and caught
the half-moon
hanging around
behind the shed -

just as it winked
at me,
ran, breathless,
sliding back
into bed,
into white sheets,
just seconds
before the fuller
orbs of your head-
lights turned
into the drive -
just seconds before
the gravel whispered
she's home
from night




The new bed we bought together
has arrived, and out of the plastic
it looks smaller than the last. In situ,
only more so, with the indents


of old lacquered posts in the carpet
hemming it in. There is no headboard,
just the thing itself: all possible forms,
screw-in feet and a medium spring.


We test it out, but don’t trust our backs
to tell the honest truth. There is no give,
at least not yet. We’re suddenly
out-of-the-box again, and there’s silence in it.


We think about how it may be topped,
how to line a pose in fresh comforts.
Neither of us is ready to populate the down
with oversized cushions -  but,


we’re here, and the children
will file in in a few hours, silent in blue,
and we will shift to make room,
maybe to soften and part before morning.


Over coffee we’ll skim through magazines,
talk about wallpaper, think other private things-
but with our backs to each other,
spooning nothing but light, harmonious sound.

poet's biography —>