Inside a house inside a small green square inside

great black seas inside these longitudes,

a slim gold watch on a bench, ticking.

You’re going through the rooms writing

lists of things to do, hoovering, scrubbing, cooking

potatoes for Daddy when he comes home

wondering when it ends, wondering when

she’ll knead the dough again, wondering

how to scrub the stove-soot she would scrub,

wondering when the plants are watered,

how to mend his shirts, wondering if she’ll step

through her scrawl. I’m sitting here inside

winter woods inside brown valleys inside

evening, wondering when the turn

from indigo to morning white

will come, wondering when these gilt

skeletons against the sky will leaf again.