Poem in which I am at stake

Sign blind,
windows before roof,
heart over mitts.

And wilfully missing the point.

And a making a wave
in the wrong direction.

And courting burn-up, an aviatrix dropping
bombs in soft air.

Leagues away, he is cutting out shapes,
passing them round.
I take it
he is also at stake,
in the cool part of the house.

And I laugh at myself without much
of him to laugh through.

Lakes of him aside, this is what I pretend
to much prefer: the volcanic heart pump,

plane like a lute
likely to flame.

Nia Davies