a love poem

 

I love going home with you
up oppressive flights of stairs,
hall semi-lit by the neighbour’s kitchen,
yellow through our northern window
          she is slowly drying dishes, closing the cupboards
for the night

we make our way in the dark, knowing the floor like a second
hand, sleepless nights spent in our matching skin, watching the
thunder roll nearer, watching the movements of the gathering
to the south, the glow of the grill, voices blending with use and
cheap beer,
                waiting for the lightning

the retreat, the safety of our beds, cotton sheets,
the party over and you,
                curled soft against me