John Mole
Meanwhile
He turns in the double bed
twice over and back
to register his
dead-weight loneliness,
kicks out a triangle
like Newton’s compass
under the duvet
and then closes it.
He goes diagonal,
no entry, making the best
of absence, marking
an unsealed envelope
with half a kiss.
Meanwhile the sun comes up
on white walls
opposite, their script
of neighbouring
wisteria which last year
tore in a wind
but held fast
through the winter.
Wherever she is
he knows she must remember
how he told her
it was their turn next,
although the waking
to this spacious emptiness
seems his alone
and to unsent letters
there’s no writing back.
Page(s) 8-9
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