Six Weeks

     No ‘and a half’ for us,

and three weeks short,

     the calendar of May and June

a black hole condensed under

our mutual weight, of sweat on skin,

sweet kiss sorties lost in light;

I cannot see from this event horizon

     how time got lost;

proof of it is memorised in balls of clothing,

the plaid bag and vinyl art we made together;

     what charity-shop finds couldn’t fit home,

a robe left behind in a wardrobe.

     Starfished in my bed,

planked on the sofa, thrusting in the kitchen;

here air you have parted, air we have shared,

     and if the glimpses of scent turn inwards,

I will still discern in places our six weeks,

and remember there will be more.