Sugar cube boats
turn to the colour of the oceans
and rot at the bottom of their china seas,
and the sun soaks in saffron threads,
all it touches
the roof line soon invades the ache
of the losing light, sitting here,
circling the coffee suds,
recording time in picks and nail marks
in the table grain.
To spend an afternoon,
with the invention of stars,
all for love to pack it away,
the house and child of incumbent dreaming.
She leaves nothing, nothing of hers,
less the cosmos dolour,
there at your feet.
You will have to leave
arm in arm, with yourself at closing.
The dark collar grace of night,
will hide the puffed redness
of the shatter,
the echo of the door swung shut.