turning forwards
to you, the hours

between us mis-
measured each time.

The certain way words
hover in mind –

‘where you are,
it’s just getting light –’

For every postcard dropped
into a yellow box
there is a bank

holiday to lengthen
impatience       (& its double –

I hope you’ll see the forest
of tiny firs

strung up
side down over the tram
tracks. Baby

Christ in ice, only
the night’s silence

not a thing at all, there
only in the pictures

left for you in yellow tin
cold for every touch.

You’ll later pin them
by the doorway.