a day will come when
woken by the xylophone
of sunthroughblinds
you’ll realise
that the beach was not the place
where horses tore the sand
to ribbon
that the scent of her has lifted
from the last of the sheets
that she isn’t coming back
and that you don’t want her to
that it hasn’t rained
but the birds are pretending that it has
so they can sing
heavenfaced 