This place is not a welcome place. Autumn is ending. Death is close.

Each time we play cards, I find I have forgotten the names of the suits and their kingdoms, the rules of this game, the first game we played together.

There is red wine 

everywhere:

Pushing peas across your plate-

Pressing them into the glaze

You’re a picky eater

It is not apricot season 

In Tescos they are hard and bitter

Like the outline of your face when you lie 

With your back to me.

Bright bodied, you come at me like its night time:

I taste your words

Even with your back just turning:

Your breath is warm enough to sleep in.

I saw a hearse on the way to work today

I don’t want to be put in a hearse

I get car sick

Bruised fruit

Oh

Anyway

I am a Thursday And I am a dog