Helen Ivory Poems

Your face is melting into her face,
the room spins three sixty;
there are birds and sirens everywhere.
The sofa is on the ceiling;
...

Behind a wood sliding door
the whistling and grinding
of a great machine
brings us slowly, inexorably
...

The solitary light
at the top of the office block
way after midnight
where a hand in the darkness
...

Residents are ghosts;
sheet-covered
in every room.
...

Every floorboard is a tip-off,
every door a squealer,
the telephone has your number.
...