A Small Amount Of Dark

Bread breaks
if it's toasted,
he said,
scoffing bucket chicken
that slid apart
in his mouth
like heaped squid.

Phone calls were frequent,
punchy,
oblique as milk.
He'd hankie the phone
like a last slice of birthday cake,
ask questions like,
'Why have you stopped blinking?'
'A week's just a concertinaed
cardiac arrest, isn't it?'
'Do you think that time would freeze
if we switched off the taps and clenched?'

Once a week
he visits the sea;
etches finger trenches
that spell names,
birthdays,
nonsense words;
watches froth
purl and fill,
leaving smooth, scarless humps,
bladderack in lumps.