He kicked off his sandals, walked
barefoot into the kitchen.
“I want to believe you. Will you let me?”
The moon went blue, strange and grey.
I don’t feel safe in this world.
Like their lyric poet,
I write – sharp tool, voice hollow in a creek:
“Was it a good death for the animal?”
Strictly entre nous, both chairs collapse,
one teak and mulberry find.
Between you and me, you and I –
where’s the ochre corridor? Take us?