Sometimes all I really want is to lie
in your spent arms a little longer,
wherever we are, whatever I’m
covered in, whoever is crashing at
your door, or rattling at your boxes
with their greedy, insistent little words.
Let them wait. Let them stew on a
low heat. Open one eye at least, while I
use your heart as a pillow, and hum this
tune that’s burrowed itself into my ear.
Now – gently – pick the stones from out
of my hooves. Throw them at the stars.
Robert Ford’s poetry has appeared in a number of print and online publications, including The Interpreter’s House, Brittle Star, Butcher’s Dog and San Pedro River Review. He is a member of The Brewery Poets in Kendal, England. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com.