Jumping from a Crumbling Building.

If you saw me going down the street today
I would seem the picture of private innocence
but don't be fooled
When Wellington has switched off, black night,
I sneak with the skill of possoms
out to your place
and stare through your bedroom window,
the heart wobbling as I watch
your heaving chest,
your darling lips closed to keep the dream warm, closed,
but not, I hope, like your heart,
which is like a small blanket
held at the corners by four brave strangers, since
when I fall
it must be open.

— Martin Doyle