Sheets
Twisting in the wind,
a contorted sheet clinging
to a hanging line,
wrung out and skin-boned
I echo the moments
around corners,
losing some,
catching others,
in a blended fuck-up
of cricket and brandy.
Mellowed in the evensong
of analogue play imaginings,
we envelop each other
in deepened-breath warmth;
toys made from hose and funnels
and rattling tins; music summoned
from the bareness of things
like divined water.
So easy, tricksy, to sound out the depths
and be found wanting more
of that which cannot be defined,
other than by a keening, yearning
connection to the rightness of things
in the given,
Where the sheet, concordant with breeze,
dries itself, stilling
to a straightness, that whilst
not wrinkle-free,
has a summoning warmth,
a snapless dryness
that suggests the bed
will be snug,
once it's fitted.
