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Their doors come through
Our walls, their noise is ours.
An enthusiast of drills,
His noise reminds me
Of steel pencils.
Each night when all their
Windows shut, they dream annoyance
Slotted between their starched
Particular nightsheets.
I hear her voice between
Three walls. Whatever she does
It doesn’t sound like fun.
May I be spared the kitchen
Mixer and electric knife;
A flexible knife has cleansed her
And it doesn’t sound good.
He makes low noise beyond
The garden wall (the garden wall).
His hut light’s on (click)
He makes mechanic sounds;
Bricks and mortar
Have broken his bones,
Used his blood.
Next door I need no clock.
- My life is timed
When their programmes switch;
Their regular sawn-off dog
Has its punctual bark. I know
They talk to neighbours,
Wait for invitations
From the household god
Who leaves no room
And interchangeable as grass
Another pair comes when
Old ones make no sound.
From The North No 8 (1990)