…a retinal twitch. And the day still black ink bled grey
the excess running to clot in the gutter with socks render
from patchy shops a silt screed over pavement slabs
sifted from foot to foot passed between strangers.
The light though has turned from plucked to reed
glissando; an irreal shift from seen to wadding.
You in your jeans that leave your legs flagpoles
your face sous rature hacked cough have been romantic.
The sun is going down through bare trees and behind
tower-blocks windows turned phosphor smog-orange
with softened light skulked back through stair wells
remaindered through west facing windows gracing east
finding us shifting foot to foot on a street corner
the air a definite pizzicato. Here my breath
is the first glut since a child stuttering into the garden
ruddy faced lungs singing clear with oxygen.
The Wolf No 17 (Spring 2008)