Karl-Marx-Allee

In May drizzle and
Bursting cloud,
The shoots shield the loose
Lying air, and I think
Of nothing but you.

I am in Richmond
And you are dismantling our bookcase,
Bulgakov and Nabokov,
Divorced, still harbouring
Last week's dust.

Your towel is left where you wept;
Wet washing litters the rack
In the kitchen, curtains flap,
And my wind-up clock stopped
With no one.

Now I cannot bare the
Sudden loneliness of trains,
and buses, and avenues in Kew;
And you, carrying wilting
silk dresses, bruised and new.

And my stomach is full of the
Indigestible bile of drink,
And the sorrow of early mornings
Lying in your dent.

Then I see us walking
Down Karl-Marx-Allee
In the dense dusk
Beneath the TV Tower,
Slowly suffocating

And I melt.