Poems

You in the World

                  for the Serb

 

Asleep on the night bus

nodding its entire circle,

the driver

         watching you for peace.

 

Your baby carriage

         hisses at the corners,

yawns as it dissects

         Victorian,

                  Edwardian,

         Tube station,

                  Tesco's.

 

The fickle heat in your wrists

         whistles through a loose button

                  on your cuff,

a dream at the base of your throat –

         Sunshine, gravel on a slope, the stunted

                  sphere of an olive tree.

 

The driver reels the depot in,

         line

                  by broken line,

takes the corner,

         looks back.

 

He knows not to wake you –

even if you miss it once

         your destination will come around

                  again.

 

 

Night Fragments

1.

My neighbour's voice is a song.

She sings to her man in the morning, and in the evening

she sings to me too.

 

I listen from my window,

her voice curling back in

like it is afraid of the night.

 

2.

Satellites do not fly.

So round the earth

they are always just falling.

 

3.

The plane shouts down,

"I am the sky!"

"I am the sky!"

but we do not raise our heads.

 

Once a man looked up.

He says he saw

a star on a wire.

 

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