We kept you at arm’s reach like a lit birthday cake.
I never saw your fury or your drunk face.
Now the only matter I can picture
is opaque: the soft pink bellow of sun in your ears.
‘Are you not jealous of other peoples’ things – on the bus
ride home, of their cars?’ There was your calm rebuff,
but that didn’t matter. I still keep
the view of your kitchen from the porch
the hot, halogen hall, your father’s chide over grades
from off-stage, the way the lamps upstairs unite.
Then the dingy corners, ancient filth
and other matter; places the skylight cannot reach.