loving him
is like standing in traffic
during rush hour

a chest of secret and a heart of lie
build it up to break it in two
watch it all
fly

away to the gorges
to the avenues paved in purpose
flitting, fighting, breathing,
biting

a piece of hard round pulse
echoing in a valley
reminder of the alive
cry

reading macbeth
to myself in a chair torn
watching trains
on an empty stage
go in circles
clicking
on wooden tracks
splintered from age
and little boy hands