The rubbish bag
is leaking again, what
sinews, synapses
you’ve disposed of
again, calling it a new era,
a new season rebirth,
another chrismation.
There’s been the bed
you can’t get out of,
drool-full, saggy
with regrets and
cockamamie dreams.
There’s the fridge
half-empty, blueberry
pellets, Greek yoghurt
with a bitter tang.
And where did these
bruises come from,
first class? Well, what
is love if not the rocks
you throw yourself against?