The Satin Gown

On the back of the door, a black satin gown,
blooming red roses, passionate as blood.

These days, this dove-grey life,
the marriage house.
Heart-stillness, and the quiet hours of passage. Wind
soughing in the ash trees all night through.

The torn gown hangs there on the wooden peg—
cheap wine and rented rooms and cigarettes,
and falling in and out of sex to get at life.
Sometimes I feel its slither on my naked skin
like lifting off the white paint with your fingernail
and underneath, the dirty, gaudy colours.