a bower, by diarmuid ó maolalaí

so sexy, the rain
running rivers
down windows.
rapping on the glass
like a radio
out of tune.
and the bedclothes
are warm
and close in,
and the bedroom
is thick-aired
and greasy.
and outside
is grey,
and the streets
darker grey,
with rain-deep
traffic lights
which land
on the tarmac
and in amongst
the buses
in piles like driven-
over oranges.

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