my jeans on the floor
crumpled into an
attitude of loss
I thought the day had
shrugged off its cares
the air was so full
of tuneful whistles
I slipped off to the beach
looking for the word littoral
I thought I had left
nothing of myself behind
now the wardrobe door
is being dusted
the room is full
of ballpoint pens
the police photographers
crouch about my jeans
making them famous
filled with lightness
light-headed light-footed
light-stomached enough
to leap three stairs
at a single bound
light-fingered enough
to lift these airy words
and send them flying
as light finally as my line
of flickering eyelashes
guying the darkness
she would wait in the impractical darkness
by the picture window's aluminium framing
until the sweeping headlights signalled
the absence of a horrific car smash
she walked in the steam
of a dreaming kettle
he walked on industrial carpet
and green hospital linoleum
her love poured from the hot tap
and filled the room with aromatic vapour
but left water-marks and lifting wallpaper
she was ever twiddling the knob of the radio
searching through the static for a slow waltz
then she would glide about the kitchen
with Victor Sylvester in her arms
his love had a
yellow formica top
and tubular steel legs