Sport 12: Autumn 1994
I don’t know why our friends say there’s no room
where we live. We keep bringing in more
books and flowers, there must be room.
One of these days, if the spiders go on spinning
and we do no work at all
we won’t be able to see out, we’ll be spun in.
One by one the animals outside
lean on the step where normally I clean my shoes.
Their noses leave a spot of wet.
It’s not that we don’t admit anyone but
we do forget, occupied with the uncharted land
across the sheets: mountains sliding away—
your knees. My untidy love, my sloven. Here we drank
and for us, it was ordinary.