My love comes in at half past five
And lies down, worn out; her eyelashes laden
With grubby mascara, and her eyes full
Of ultra violet seen through a green shade.
I will not tell you how her muscles
Have carried the weight of a full day’s work,
Except, they ache in every tendon.
So she lies down and rests a minute.
And half awake and half asleep she hears
The ice-cream bell ringing outside,
And falls into a deep despair,
At living here, at living here.
You are my language.
Have more to do with movement than with thought
And more with action than with cogitation
You are the unknown instrument
That picks up shadows out of sea and sky
And trees and wind
You are more than that
You are the voice that tears at the fabric of tomorrow
Since bones and veins think of tomorrow
Needs must enclose what’s happened