Warmth.
the penny-pay laundry
is swampland in summer,
so close and boiled over
like hell with soap
and steam; rumbling in winter
and a round rolling heat,
the fragrant tops
of mushrooms
breaking up through paved snow.
I carry the bag
from apt to laundry.
my fingers are cold,
there’s a paperback in
my back pocket. piled
on a table, the clothes
feel warm also,
with that sickening softness
of rotting worn leaves.
I count out quarters,
from the quarter machine
and drop in 12;
15 minutes each. I put the rest
in my pocket
for the dryer
and wipe my hand
on my jeans.
No rent
he’s working for his aunt
and his cousin in the cousin’s
new house. a room for no rent
in exchange for some labour – he’s
been fixing things up: painting walls,
cutting drywall and putting up
skirting in doorways. he invites
us around for some beer on a saturday
evening. it’s weird going over
to his family’s house – saying hi,
we are here to see the servant.
we brought some blue moons.
should we go to the back
door or what?
Two good days.
Nikki cooks pizza
her first night Toronto
of these two days
she’s around for this conference.
I bring around wine
and we both smoke some cigarettes,
listen to storms
watching comedy.
the second night
she’s ordered Ethiopian
in, and it tastes pretty good
though the bread
much too soggy for my taste.
she still has some wine left
which I drink by myself
and go outside to smoke
because it’s dry tonight.
we fuck like gods all afternoon
and all evening; wrap ourselves in blankets,
pretending there’s another storm
so we have an excuse to stay in,
trading mouthfuls of hot beef
and hot tongue and hot teeth,
touching each other
and watching more comedy.
Snow and the gossip
in line at the post office
in blessington on friday.
we’ve had snow and the gossip
is all about snow. will it fall again
do we think, or just frost. either way the ladies
ahead won’t be walking. they’re vocal
about risking a sprain. at least though,
one says, it keeps the blacks out of the street
since they naturally can’t stand the weather.
jesus – I think about saying something.
I don’t – they are both pushing 80. but I think
it, and look very angry.
Coast Road, 10pm
over the bayline
our city goes brilliant,
shining like sunlight
on exposed crops
of rock. it’s night-
time: see diamonds
in their piles
of no buildings.
and I suppose
over there
it must look like that
here. things stack
up everywhere; distance in light
and the layering up difference
of cities. seabirds making noises
like throwing a paperback book.
somewhere shops close
and people light cigarettes. cars go by.
order food in take-aways
and light with no texture.
roadsides, the silence
of sealines,
rubbed rough
with the movement of cars.