felt slippers

well it is raining isn't it
the sky is opaque a cup of tea i think of how,
i like it and
of how you wouldn't like it

baby bairn i'm acclimatin'
it's all very infatuatin'
the sky full of water
the sound full of sea
the lake full of lake and the
city full of wells,

but i think of how 

i wore your grey felt slippers 

'round your house

i think of how 

you would scratch my curly head

with those long, blonde

square fingers

how no one else 

could do it that way

and a bloom of sadness

which lies half-asleep

turns its frown 

toward my face

and looks right

into my eyes.

so it is then.

never a stain that rain could 

just wash away

a bruise

something beneath my skin

and i don't know 

how many bowls of blood 

i will have to drink 

before my own overtakes

the tea in my veins

such spiders-legs compared 

to your thick branches