Tonight, the Perseids streak hard light
through an overlit sky, orange peel under dark liquid.
I used to read about these things
and turn the television on, forgetting.
And still the upper atmosphere feels a long way
from my busy happenings.
Instead I notice the snowdrops are earlier
and the birds sing every hour as though something were starting.
I go outside to tip away the rubbish. Each glimmer overhead
is a chance left to take, having placed our bets.
On our way to lie in the park, we put fingers through ribs
to touch the heart of things. Outside the café you were
quite far ahead, even when speaking of counting in pairs.
You talked of painting female nudes with only your hands.
The studio was covered in reds and pinks of your motif.
In one corner, some butterflies were pinned inside a little box
leaned against the window, presenting too many barriers.