Rain comes at seven –
ten past, you want to walk outside.
Dinner, you pronounce,
can sit in the yellow light of the humming fridge:
in the yellow light of evening, we go out
and look at things. I’m starving,
and if this helps, you keep it to yourself.
In the bushes nothing moves. The wind
whips up the rubbish, circles, biting grit,
then lapses. Gulls shriek at nothing, trees
wrecked by too much summer, slump,
and I agree we’ll sleep in different rooms,
and dinner spoils. Rain stops at eight:
at nine I go to bed and dream of heat
that steams the wet off pavements,
dries the air.