Andrew McMillan

Finallya day will come whenwoken by the xylophoneof sunthroughblindsyou__l realisethat the beach was not the placewhere horses tore the sandto ribbonthat the scent of him has liftedfrom the last of the sheetsthat he isn__ coming backthat it hasn__ rainedbut the birds are pretending that it hasso they can sing

they say we__e losing centimetresevery year; as if we werea beach that__ losingground with every salt advancethe night is overcastbut why not try, at least,to touch the things our orbitscannot hold, while there__ timewhile we can.

oh love, doesn__ the fact that the world is so big,laid out like ripe fruitmake you want to stay?

Being one__ true and honest self can often be dangerous; and poetry should always be a place where, if only between the pages, that danger and energy and fear and excitement and love can fizz and spark without ever threatening to burn something down.

loveis giving everything too easilythen staying to try and claw it back

the toilet is an intimacyonly shared with parents when you are youngand once again when they are olderand with lovers when say on a Sundaymorning stretching into the bathroomyou wake to the sound of stream into bowland go to hug the naked bodystood with its back to you and kiss the neckand taste the whole of the night on thereand smell the morning__ pale yellow lossand take the whole of him in your handand feel the water moving through himand knowing that this is love the prone fleshwhat we expel from the body and what we let inside

he looks the waysilence looks before it__ broken