First half of the year
life has fallen through
leaving a blitzed interior.
Pink uplighters, coloured backdrops
faces I have known the smell of.

You were all well suited
breathing in and out like a cavalry.
There was nothing similar in your look
as if I’d been trying different dresses on for size
hoping one of them would fit.

You could believe that God was near
transfixed by cigarette smoke
whorls of cumulus, whorls of fingerprints
you could believe in God at the end of the room
at the end of the next needle.

First half of the year
life falls through its own habits
leaving solitary sentries
faces painted with integral intentions
neon overheads, bare boned stories.