by Nick Laird
Go home. I haven’t slept alone
in weeks and need to reach across
the sheets to find not warmth but loss.
The lack of which now sees me fat
and not content – by that I mean
I couldn’t manage either tough or kind.
Not fit to speak to man or beast,
I wouldn’t suffer you to see
the sight of me drawn inside-out,
which means the thing is being there.
Not here. If you knew enough you’d
know removed is how you’re loved.
Get up. Take yourself into the night.
Walk streets that lie against and cross
themselves to pray for shade, then light.