'the poet writes the history of his own body'
just killing time at ‘The Slavery Museum’ waiting for the train to suburbia
Oh yes, I have seen Africa
In the trinket shop @ Liverpool Dock.
what the spaceman heard when the world ended
& now in the morning I sit here looking through the window as Erik Satie weeps
Embalmed trees wax limply;
Seventy-five fields away, the sea dreams of suffocation.
the rust on the bone factory gates peels off like eucalyptus bark
Wherever we tread
We walk on buried ground.
chapter in your life entitled ‘I touched the face of Christ once…..’
Beyond Berlin, thrust of another 747 left parts of his flesh on tarmac,
Forever arriving at the departure lounge.
where we neither fear nor know the geometry of the land
These cups of tea, this ordinary light,
This journeying into unfamiliar countries.
I would eat through her dry hills if we were river
My mind flowers on the stalk
She holds in her loving hands.