Doorstep / Afternoon without you, now what

Doorstep

Where the flannel crosses—I mean
where the plaid kisses—I will not take place
tonight—do not
remove my clothing—cannot
remove my house—the suburb is cool
in early spring, in the way windows stay
open despite chill, cool
in the way inhabitants dress 
up and out again—the rain is back—
whenever I re
move my shirt you say Oh, oh
oh and kiss my back, I like
what it does to you—to keep it off
keeps me well out of 
frame—please
can we eat fish and chips tonight,
I cannot cook, I cannot cook, can we 
just eat what arrives, 
can it be ready 
already, can we eat it
on the doorstep, can we be in our coats?


Afternoon without you, now what

Saw that new movie—now what 
if it is easy to wake,
kiss you, sit then
at a desk that faces 
east, pass
my hands over 
to air, air into
food—watch 
hands improve, when
left awake, chilly, slightly
discontent 
out of bed—good 
grief, love, I think
we could figure this
in, then out, then on
top of the hot
days, with you
still asleep, but soon 
to rise—close—we’re
getting closer, clothes
getting closer to
breakwater, the dead
sea of the chest a coating
coat, licking its way up 
and down the self—a coast
reforming—you, in bed, eroding
storm—the sea water’s
disgruntled shuffle towards
heat—come December, we
will be barer,
burnt, the Bass 
Strait still cold and the cliffs
remaining, the coast 
still a coastline—the line
a queue for tickets—the tickets
worth getting—you, awake,
and watching

MORE FROM THIS ISSUE