Bricks, sink things

Bricks, sink things

And she wants to tell him that
writing a poem is like packing a case

that sometimes she finds red seaside buckets
moth nusling next to packets of A4 copier paper, thick as bricks.

That there could be suitcases filling up with snow
quick as Polish noses turning pink,

word seeds that he helped plant, lung branching
out from her heart and up in to her hair,

an old English desk with biro imprint,
done by a girl who smelt like sawdust,

all in the same section
but that, the lack of him there,

is not cos he has no hold,
more that locks can open with a hairpin blink
and some things need keeping safer.