The first leaves of grass are torn
for ivory: a single semibreve
from a full head of hair. Night
has burnt us once again, played
the river’s mouth

with a flood of starlings. You,
darling, are near with knife.
Knives. Two fingers on steel.

We have disturbed our child
in nocturna. All pavor is
just a scent. Our neighbours
have smoked our paint fumes,
torn hay with broken crowns.

We have outgrown our roots,
and now we return to a home
overgrown with bougainvillea.