Work's One... Poem by Harry Irene

Work's one. what's left is two.
It's been forty days or more,
Since I thought of you
Sitting on the windowsill.
Moon galloping and heat raving,
I cared about the cost.

Skinny and laden with serranilla
And pockets of oil; my own doing.
Stooped on the alphabet streets,
You near me, and I at a distance.
You're a spirit of my home; a scent.

The pendular thrift of my clockwork
Flows like languid sheets on a cold eve,
Or a flux of mad honey, or rusted blood.
I've held you in time, though the pulse of our
Breath dilates and stretches into a vacuum.