Outside they’re tying ropes. Shouts
ricochet like the calls from birds
in different trees. Organs rumble.
It dawns on you the ship has chosen
not to sink again, and breath’s engines,
having seen you safely through
to the wordless shores of a land
before the radio starts to speak,
will carry on regardless, now,
as questions disembark.
Have two people ever met
on equal terms? asks the jetty;
Can there be a pair of islands?
(over the tannoy) Do apologies exist?
Or is there always an attempt to say,
‘That wasn’t me, I promise’?
What to call the space between
our pillows? Is it ‘a day’? Is it ‘love’?
Waking face to face, your love
is at the porthole, your lover is
a porthole mouthing: come find out.