Come in from the cold,

declares the rare hour, here to the day of sleep,

coughing and creeping through the burnt violin strings -

 the hallway buckling to its knees, saying please

make me human, run your thoughts over my arms,

here I am - welcoming you on the stairs.

Her hair tied up on her head,

tendrils of tumbling bees,

sigh in the shift of a trapped window

and a pair of shoes, bitten at the toe,

grin, like a wheezing

grandfather’s wheelbarrow –

full of walk but no room for tomorrow.

Take your rest here,

I was born for time running through

and my desire

is a pair of pliers

to bend the shape of wait

and tie it to my flowers –

the ones that hang from the coat stand,

forgotten and unmended,

and a macaroni birthday card you made,

left behind in the rush to grow up

 stowed in the cupboard

with the mustard touched wires

 of childhood.

I sigh mirror eyes

from the depth of my fires

that go whistling around

doors opened and jammed

in the haste -

in the taste -

of your morning run,

the cost of what makes home

so precious to escape from.

Come in from the cold,

I am worried and old

and streaked

of my limbs -

how I have waited!

My tickle fraught and fought,

salted and drawn

on the dawn bated -

 knowing how late

the want is for you,

coming home to me.