Two soluble aspirins spore in this glass, their mycelia
fruiting the water, which I twist into milkiness.
The whole world seems to slide into the drain by my window.
It has rained and rained since you left, the streets
black and muscled with water. Out of pain and exhaustion you came
into my mouth, covering my tongue with your good and bitter milk.
Now I find you have cashed that cheque. I imagine you
slipping the paper under steel and glass. I sit here in a circle
of lamplight, studying women of nine hundred years past.
My hand moves into darkness as I write, ‘The adulterous woman
lost her nose and ears; the man was fined.’ I drain the glass.
I still want to return to that hotel room by the station
to hear all night the goods trains coming and leaving.