Mornings are worse. Do you
find that? I wake as light arrives
at every crevice in the house. The birds
are a chorus of women
thrilled by new possessions. I might hear
the church bell, an aeroplane
descending in steps... The world
is close, but outside:
beyond the window-sill, beyond the gate,
a guileless cryptogram.
I shall die of my thoughts. I've become
my story's heroine
saturated by disease, the last
of the beautiful tuberculars.
All this would be solved
if I had you between the pulses of my wrists.
David Harsent, do livro Mr Punch in Selected Poems:1969-2005, Faber & Faber.