The Manchester Review
Rebecca Perry
Four poems
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Surface Level

On nights like this it can be hard to sit still.
It can be hard to make human contact when
we sweat as instantly as thunderstorms.
The air all bog cotton and centre of a cloud,
rouses itself into formation, rolls up, gathers.
The windows are blank eyes, black and still.
The windows are gaping mouths and no air.
We lie out flat on sheetless beds, cold floors;
limbs limp like foxes’ at the hems of country lanes.

Outside, the frogs who tried to cross the road
dot the tarmac in their hapless constellation,
freckle-flat, browning rapidly like apple bites.
The sky cracks open, sudden as light. We watch
the downpour, its coax. The rain is swelling them up.