Articulated Points

One year after I met you -
Ill, stricken, your chocolate orange lies
castling across my joints,
I break – concave dandelion, seeds
splashing under my gambling shoes.

One year, one month -
They may lay their hides over your favourite
city garden walks, might leave hopeful lip prints
on the glass in your sturdy museum holidays, spit
love-letter typefaces down their ankles or hum in the grey
cold to stay awake for surgery,
and I will coagulate with my dresses,

not collectible.