slow to get there

the new year starts
with a documentary on Stax
and Otis blowing them away
at Monterey

the doors and windows are open
but there’s no breeze,
just more and more heat
as if the sun had hidden it
in house-bricks for later,
and now mocks the moon,
now puts a heavy hand on my chest,
where I have sunk into the couch,
like the slowest of shipwrecks.

(I’ve just realised that I’ve been dating all my poems 2009 for the whole of Jan for some reason – including this one, which was written New Year’s day. Denial?)