the many-fingered fig tree on my bedside table leans towards you when you're here
smoking and smiling, weaving me poetry -
it wants your wetness. That glitter in your mouth
the sodium in your sweat,
that sits in my spit like cardamon until well after you're gone.
While you sleep and I'm awake, gripping you,
lusting crows blacken the window and caw your name like women
looking at your body and grinning,
casting black shadows on your skin.
I bury your jewellery in the garden,
and shut the curtains so the smell can't get in.


the vines tore down and touched the street
our hands interlink
we lifted the pavement from its bones.
I came with a shudder,
as crows spluttered from the spire.