Grip

Grip
calling you, so I dialled each
number in his book until
I reached yours. The first thing
you say is
I’m desperate to share this with you.
Let’s be peaks, pine trees, magpies.
We can wait for each other to change slowly over centuries.
We’ll collect every copper coin, every silver needle,
that the other leaves behind. We’ll sew
pillows with the tamarind and jasmine
that arrive, tacit and silken, between snowfalls.
I know I’ve not yet loved you enough,
but how can we be in two beds
of feather and straw?
should be dying in one another’s arms,

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