The third planet

Night thuds;

wine seeps everywhere.

The TV screen flickers
a nonsense Morse code message
at your dry eyes.
The edges of your body are a crime scene,
white and loose.

A man stares past camera. He wears
an expensive shirt. Dark trousers. A tie.
His mouth opens;
his teeth are perfectly white.

You hold a glass. Why not?
Even when you’re on your own
you’ve got to keep up appearances.
Fingers curl stem, trace the fragile loverlike shape.
A droplet of blood or something else as holy
swims at the very bottom. A living being,

dirt, god, something
alien. Dust?
You should vacuum tomorrow;
it will fill the silence like prayer.
The heart does not break loudly.

You see yourself in the dark between adverts.
A painter’s self-portrait
– I mean, don’t you think van Gogh
cut right to his own essence? –
and a can of beer, a brand new car,
a bottle of scent. You watch
while beautiful people almost have sex
and nobody mentions love.

California

At eight, you almost drowned in a classmate’s pool.
It was simple, almost appealing,
that slow, thoughtless sinking
into unerotic water.
You were cold.

Somehow you only remember the details:
Laughter from the shallow end.
A dead bee turning idly in your wake.
A few leaves on the surface,
as though to say that nothing,
not even summer,
lasts forever.

When you got out,
you sat at the edge, gasping,
and no one came over to see what was wrong,
and nobody asked how you were.
You just stared at your legs in the water,
trying to catch the moment
the light made them disappear
and wondering whose fault this was and why.