trout

Crib

Richard Reeve

i
Coiling into the dense air,
the gentle soughing of the fridge
rises beyond metaphor,
its antique engine at odds

with the gale outside.
A ridge of winter water
crashes against the rock sea-wall
that lies under the house.

Macrocarpa, their branches
suspended above the roof
which two months ago you painted,
rain down pine needles.

ii
Here, left alone between
shelves of books that are not yours,
you submit to the sibilance
of this bizarre loneliness

that is another man's fridge
crying its motor's song
of contrition or appeasement
into the black storm

raging behind the curtains.
A mouse snaps shut in its trap.
Moths bang the light bulb.
The filaments of meaninglessness

are an unconquerable
structure: the perfected shell
washed up on the beach
inside which a parasite lives.

iii
The fridge murmurs on.
Wind hammers against the roof,
beyond, the foaming estuary
rushes towards the sea

drowning out its cold music.
We are deluded who believe
in the impassivity of the stones.
Low tide bares the inlet.