Drowning in the noises of black sea beach,
Ruby boyhood daydream in the winter hall,
transported from dull to duller :
a February vacation.
Call them Martin and Matilda, twins with
no redeeming features, seven years,
staring out the tiny attic window
as the rain came down in bullet lines.
They peeped from the corrugated hay barn
across the weeded concrete.
In that black plastic was a mushroom of horsefeed,
ready to be given out.
They shared secret oilcake to settle the rumbling bellies,
gothic caverns, avenues blood lit and sumptuous.
I cut my nails and parts of me appear
to touch as if it were the first time.
They touch warm scuffed chromium, solid and secure.
A distant puck of patter,
and the churning buttermilk of linen stir and lapse,
contained by the shadow of the buttercup.