…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.