Mike Crowl's Poems in Process

Lying still, winding down from making love, I heard the room - for the first time - singing. And realised it was not cold, insensate, knew it knew me knew me naked, in intimacy: in getting up and dressing, undressing, lying down, swapping shoes for slippers slipping trousers on, ferreting in the dark for underpants, lying buff in summer in winter pyjama-ed. All walls have ears, eyes - this room smells me, is tender towards me, feels me in itself where love is most hard to make and simplest. Opening a morning window it sings me to the world.

Written late one night in my head and written down the next day.  Possibly Monday 21st May - but what year? !!

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