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H is already awake and worrying She is dealing with a new problem I am in love with her so I help Tea or coffee? Tea Pigeons have nested on the flat’s small balcony She is outside, investigating in bare feet The studio flat is small enough that I see through the glass doors from bed Delicate shit marbles the railings, the tiled floor, the two plastic chairs and matching table In her hand is a dinner knife Urgently she scrapes off the shit Each surface sings a little as the blade is worked across: octaves of metal up in the clouds, tiles slightly lower, plastic right through my chest    Accustomed to her ritual, the pigeons stay put Loudly they caress each other Synchronised with the sun, their feelings swell at twilight and then once more at dusk Affection lives in their throats H will sometimes shush them Finger pressed pointlessly to her lips, as if they are children I don’t mind their fragile heads Bodies so large Through the mottled glass doors their claws appear deep-sea, something starfish H wipes the dinner knife with a rag She turns and mouths the word tea at me, her eyebrows raised    I return a thumbs up and finish picking the sleep from my eyes Last night’s dream settles as a memory A pigeon’s beak methodically piercing my skin, until bloodless holes run in neat lines across my forearms The moment of contact is nothing more than a pinch Light hits the bed first, before shifting into the kitchen The apartment belongs to H Plants thrive in every corner Walls painted a specific shade of white She has concerns about the old electrics A sound of crickets fills each outlet, loudest at the kettle I close my eyes against the sun The teabag brews too long H will not drink it    The pigeons must feel the damp from last night’s light rain Each flap of their wings releases small, perfect down feathers H is irritated as they drift inside She drops the knife into the sink and begins to sweep aggressively Her