On the other side
Of the blackened river, we’ve moved
All of our belongings, piece
By piece into blue — grey — brown.
We are on the better side, we say
As we look but a few airplanes away
At the red — green — grey we used
To sit in. The river can’t decide
Whether it wants to gush or crawl.
And that’s okay by you. Some days
You are happy to hear the silence
Basking in the domesticity of it all.
Other days you tear apart our paintings,
Piece by piece, with claws grown sharp
By the domesticity of it all.