Gunshots in the Subway

I tore through you and didn’t stop
creating two doors
one for life to enter
and other to exit
death is born in your torso
leeching blood and gurgles
spiked with murmours
of onlookers, unsure
what to do, apart from panic
freezing like eggs in aspic
in the shallow terrine
of the underpass

Bathroom

I watch you shower from the corner of the bathroom
spacious with black and white tiles

costing more than we had anticipated
restored to the fashionable, Gothic style

you shake your head, fanning droplets out
like a crystal peacock’s tail fan

catching the light from the frosted glass
bending it in all directions

as I hand you a towel
and admire you.