we’ve been pulling off this plaster for months,
each stopping the other from tearing it off
in one swift sting,
each pushing back in turn
when the wound below looks raw.
the autumn nights point us away againclockwork
repeating the motions of last time ‘round,
smelling the same air
on the same streetlit roads.
it’s still raw beneath the plaster
but when it’s healed I’ll want the scar.
on autumn nights
i’ll run my fingers where the plaster used to lie
and repeat the motions, remember all over again.
and when the names of streetlit roads
are shed like leaves, lost in swept-up piles,
i’ll take a shard of the old clockface
and run it where the plaster used to lie
and while the wound below looks raw
we can play with the plaster again.
Nick Devlin is currently living and studying in York. He writes poetry when he’s left with no other