On Kelvin Way
Side stepping puddles on the avenue of leaves
and the wind, like a good psychoanalyst,
is laying bare the tree’s illusions - of spring.
One by one it's stripping them of leaves.
Another year is closing, clogging the drains.
Autumn is erotic, flouncing leaves
the way you used to do your day things
before jangling the quoits of our bed.
That summer the sun
cracked its eggs of love juice through the windows,
the bed screeched beneath us like a demented tyrant
and the dust flew, raining in the sun.
Tonight the street lights have failed.
A car's headlights, tiny in the black, roam
like the pale eyes of the Loch Ness Monster
lost in the soupy deep. And I, too, like him
am lonely, with this difference: I have proof
we existed, in super fine details -
the massed commas of your pubic hair,
the sieved flour softness of your hands.
Sentimental memories - but they lie deep,
like lochs crammed in by the mountains of self.
Tonight I'm moving through them, slowly, creating ripples.