Busless and cold, we walked just to feel walking. You

carrying the cargo under your arm, our sarcophagus of dead food

salvaged isosceles, crescent half-pizzas

in a too-big school-uniform box.

my feet still speckled in lunchtime's mud

laces stickling with the unsuitables of soles

out of place yet not at sea in the rolling bogs and blisterbunkers

dog-lost, soft

you, arctic, bag weighted with anchoring poems

me, an awkwardness of jeans.

That green man snubbed us with a clipboard and tones bored,

clipped. Bald. Sat in the oven of his car,

us, cornered by Moon's ulcer.

Nit-nests liced to iodine trees to our left

moon-fingered and smoke-ringed,

a murder of clouds and the

bauble crows, coaled, cirrus-slight,

rain-winged

buzzing like flies

crowbar walls enshrined grave coaches,

terminal, searchlit,

Left the box we’d hauled all night onto the medievals of cold stone

where I insisted on roosting

fell quiet

clocks turning forward like the train that railed me through wind tunnels

all in good time

each car a fragmented scrap of jigsaw to puzzle on

CCTV reeling off our silver screens

station unplatformed and nebulous like those nerve-wracked poems I

read to the drunk who held your hand- kissed it, gentle-

and the surf rattling around the first, disinclined pinpricks of night

-came late-

but given time to prosper

in the burgeoning

throng of candled houses

shimmering with soundlessness,

clanking skylarks

waiting on April.