Let's Start Again

After the man left in his van
you put your pen to your lips like a cigarette
and did an impression of him.
I laughed even though it was rubbish
and I kept laughing through unpacking
through hanging, unfolding and deciding.

We didn’t have enough stuff to fill the house.
In the spare room and lonely enclaves
we left lovely temporary sculptures
made of books and boxes, dog mugs, tins, a cactus.

I learned that photos of birds make rooms sing
that we don’t ever really need cushions
that you were never jealous when your brother was born,
you just kissed his head and waited for him to be big.

I lost the big key to the back door
but it was the only annoying thing I did.
I found it three weeks later under a book,
with some stamps, a picture frame and a post-it note
to me from me, saying: don’t fuck this up.

I decided to frame something new
and resolved to send more letters.
Opening the back door for the first time,
I could smell winter. The post-it slipped
from my fingers like a moment
and sailed a dizzy rise above chimneys