There’s gold up there
pink streets
and wet nights
so blue
if the rain comes down
hard enough you can

forget you’re haemorrhaging
half your life away
on someone else’s
vision.

Experts
on the radio say
it’s impossible
to dream
small
here -

we’ve ruined nearly
all of it
except for the lights across the bridge,
they keep on
shimmering.

So living is impossible but
living is lovely.
Making money seems easy,
it’s the keeping it
that wedges that
gap between us.

Each morning I wake
before everyone else
to watch
the yellow light move its way up
the palm tree moving
in the street outside
our house
as though we’re in LA
and everything matters.

When it’s finished I rollover
and press secretly
into your skin.
Everything’s a mess
and nothing is
obvious
and yet

here you are,
still,
next to me.