And now as things close in –
these questions unanswered
like the prows of boats
which sit and bob
in the afterflow
of opened lock gates
or the dart and dive
of seagulls strutting and fretting
on streets between apartment blocks –
we’re doing our best.
Love might be no more
than a question mark
but here at least we’re sure
as we’re ever likely to be –
deploying the same old signs,
old hands at this old game,
which we know now somehow
as well as we’re going to:
these habits and conditionalities,
the words we’ll say,
the flowers on the table,
this morning routine.
