Living alone for love one cannot but think of Tennessee

and that piece of plastic

(bottle top? spray nozzle? drug works?)

lodged in his windpipe

in the Wyndham Hotel.

We do things no one knows those of us who live like this for love.

No one listens, anxious, to our coughing in the night or

calls from the next room ("Are you alright?" ) when we trip or

sob or prick

our finger on the aluminium foil easy-open yogurt top

or (briefly) scream with

mad delight.

No one would know, if our dressing gown

sleeve caught fire

whether we were just careless making the tea one day or

suicidal

or simply making sudden symphony-conductor

sweeps of joy

at the time.

Nobody knows our intent:

the things we swallow or

why we burn

or choke

or what we

meant.