by Luke Otley
Your skin tweaks as if to the scuttle of a beetle’s touch,
and the window is stuttering
in the manner of a man about to ask an enormous favour,
almost embarrassed to reveal the street,
which is inevitably lank with the sun’s light.
We pull the curtains
but they hang uncomfortably
out-of-place, and solemn
as military uniforms collecting dust,
exiled to the wardrobes of widows.