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.