In my fake Eames chair,
in the new bay window,
I spend fifteen minutes
of this Sunday morning
reading ‘The Observer’
from three weeks ago,
and, by avoiding the news,
find the world was,
back then,
very much the same
as the world today,
like the to-and-fros
outside the bay window.


Behind my eyes,
becalmed in bed,
as the rooks clatter
in the lime trees,

and the last barks
of a dog trails off,
I am in the entrepot
of my memories,

picking at the skin
of scar tissue love,
I peel back time,
to make the past bleed

with the lifting
of rough scabs,
and with this peeling
comes a sore wound

which will not heal,
because I scratch it
into an angry mess:
her mark remains.