I Eat Poetry

Cashmere

Staring ahead like something biding its time
in a cashmere suit still smelling of marzipan

and the smell of the mushrooms her mother said smell of vanilla,
and tiny polished boots like hand-made beech-nuts,

he's waiting in the hall for her return --
if waiting is the word for not waiting,

for wanting her, and more than her, and breathing
very slowly, like an ear-drop.


Egg

And when the lodger, on the second day,
asks her if she knows the word cock

she looks ahead and simply starts walking,
steadying the word like an egg.