so I must have loved the smell of you
that high-bird night on Calton Hill when the wind looted our words so we perched close, you becoming my air - for how your braid would breathe into the fibrous root of itself the tracing of days; guitar strings, tobacco, onions frying whilst you danced, would snake to sup our heat. I joked I'd know if you were cheating - that you'd buy shampoo, cut your hair executive-short, but the end, no Event, just that unparticular morning waking to hate your smell as if something between us had rotted, made us sick.
The young poet says he is getting married, the workshop has a wedding theme. When we are to choose a person for a starting point he homes to his girlfriend as an example of a person, says he always thinks of her in a yellow raincoat though she doesn't have one and did we hear her in the next room laughing? He doesn't know what at. I wonder at a longing to pause us to ask and what, when we write our lists of things old, new, borrowed and blue, he is placing on the long linened table of his page - if he worries his gift of a raincoat (there by the sonnets, the song thrush's egg) might replace the one she wears when he holds her in thought always weatherproof, golden.
Mother [who liked them as babies best - projected on to screen of fresh skin the milky icon of herself before their mouths learned the sound and the shape of no and the whorls on their fingers deepened their difference to spread] shrines them small. Each adult child a shelf: * three plain pebbles barely-shaped blocks of wooden boat long-forgetting small palm unfit for sea * bothy for one clay boy beige fired lion worked-wax he intended gold torso of man * comedy dog unicorn poem glazed girl smiles smiles hugs knees * Unused mug. Handle, an infant's ear. Name glossed.