From the Fishouse

This is no season of the quartered orange,
squirting and splitting in your exquisite fingers.

Like the leaves.

You’ve gone,
like the carbon-dusted yellow leaves.

Last night I dreamt of the dark dogs
nuzzling and tearing at the refuse sacks
that languished in doorways,
that bled like cunts when they slit them.

I am hunched in the laptop’s glow.
Behind its hum
I can hear them now in the frozen streets beyond my window

their whispers drifting through the alley ways

their claws clicking on the footpath