Spring.

I'm lying in my underwear, thin

film of sweat and the heavy

breath makes a wave

through my window.  

From where I lie the trees

are upside down, morning 

masturbation with the sigh 

of a season's arrival. 

Spring is here 

to perform open heart surgery.

From where I lie (on the trampoline

this time) the grass ripples 

like a body beneath me. 

The blood in my eyelids

cocoons my vision, and I can see 

the birds. I can see their wings.

I run for the train 

like water down the drain, I fly 

on baked pavement and breathe

with the newness of it all.

I'm standing

in a new-home dream, my hands

cradle your milkshake skull it's a 

quiet gathering 

under my eyelids, tonight. 

Wind rips through my bedroom

and upends my heartbeat, jawline

buzzing with the second coming.

From where I lie (underwater 

this time) I find myself thinking

of teeth and tongues, I'm a stranger

perhaps, to the want.

Soaked to the bone with spring on

my breath I find myself feeling

the weather in my head, and I savour the seconds 

of knowing / not knowing

anything. From where I lie

(in my head, all the time)

I'm listening to the snap crackle

of oil in a pan and the steady

thock of an onion chop, 

the grainy whispers of TV sitcoms

and the water wind-chime of wine

filling my mum's glass, the trees 

whispering to each other and I find

myself feeling the house in my lungs 

and the house,

it breathes beneath me.