There’s something I’ve been trying to access
a particular point in feeling. There’s the difficulty.
It’s attached to conditions at points
along the curvature. Words when they come
stare him straight in the face, as if he were the centre
though perhaps he was the background
the music falls on. He was the kind of man
you would follow into the loss of return.
You would not. Only a clod would enter that trail
but I get to see them: My own footprints in the rain
spilling out nonsense en route to the City.
Next there’s the door salesman that took out the rest of your life
people said you’re not in danger, passing through
the phased exit. Listen, Fauntleroy, you can pay me back
whenever, the next mass suicide event
you had blood pissing down my arms. We were so unwell.
In the shop window there was a model of a skeleton
for anyone that needed to get a skeleton.
The crosshairs moved away so locate it again.
On the wall behind The Duke we were frozen
puppies forbidden lightness kissing
in this aubade simply gorgeous friendship;
you’d seen the sun up, robin. I had not.
In the ABBA café life prevailed. One hundred years ago
the boundaries raced beyond this station,
The Regency estate blunted to the west with brickwork
and a road, a wide, gaunt road to the institutions.
So it’s time to turn away once more
to the corner feeling almost complete
obliteration and how stupid again to be that way moved.
All the while he stood there developing a doctrine,
soap products, card games, asking for everything I shouldn’t have
had for free. Somewhere else for now, a little way off
west on the beach at high tide (the mast of the wreck
twitching in the drink) you won’t want to do this anymore,
you said, in a year or so, and there it fired up
the flickering tongue that takes you down to the Sanctuary,
how old, I’m in the same place and have moved
and remained the present tense folded, stupid
to the pressure you’re inside it: A different kind of risk.
