I went to our home at five thirty,
as arranged.
It stank of 'not my house,' and
my things were shyly poking from behind
your things.

Your mum, I guess,
had made a huge, huge collage
of pictures: of nine years of you, your family, our son,
but not me.

I was leaking out the cracks in the doors and walls.
My son would see nothing of me.
I gathered what I could and left.

Shall I compare thee to a cup of tea?
Thou art less lovely and less temperate.
Your voice winds do shake my tranquillity,
And fair attentions are too hard to get.
Sometimes too hot your critical glare shines,
And often is your vicious tongue untrimmed;
And every sip of love in time declines,
With swift return to lover's lounge much dimmed.
Your sharp heat shall never cool to comfort,
And all sugar in the world won't sweeten,
The bitter beating of your blackened heart;
Nor shall the greed of your soul be beaten.
As long as men can drink a cup of tea,
So long lives my hate and disgust for thee.

Sons of light and darkness.
Twist. Reach for the new sun,
Clothed in night passions.
A flicker of existence entrances
Us all - confuses; brings joy and hurt
Till we become the Sons of Nothing.

In a single tear lie several sorrows;
In a single sorrow lie several tears.

You led me to the lighthouse,
squat on the rolling lake of grass.

Beneath the great guard we slid
through the marshmallow heat to the edge of the land.

Pressed into the sand below a blue sky, together we stopped,
and let the lapping water wash.