Composition Number 1
This is running. Flying rain in your
face, and an unfamiliar bird singing
to falling leaves, and the rain feels
the arch of your neck. A drink all
along your spine. But this isn’t me.
Composition Number 2
This is a thumb with a nail smooth
as a rumour. It knocks on doors,
that occasionally aren’t answered.
It bleeds. It is long suffering with
arthritic grief. But it isn’t mine.