2 Poems

Wigilia Dinners

A muddy patch on Greyhound windows,
scraping clean in claret bath lacquer
mulling heat rash ruddy amongst
the stomach pain swirls inky acidic
markers as testament to what gets
left as unburned kindle, as untested steel,
as chalkboard theory, as textbook framework.

Embrace of asphalt arms, the model
sparkling monuments to welfare states past
which guide as gilded wire to weary dawns
forward in militia march of white faced
hours, leaking pavement shades in buckets
for trenchant timing up is the strongest
suit of cardstock to have handed.

Plastic cups, plates of precious silver,
like a mismatch of Wigilia and milk bar,
wash against each as sandshore rocks
the barring remove of aparting ocean;
as still as life mural painting, stand
up personable, but it's not the
sort of supper you have until you're

older, able to make sense.

Ode to DLR

You and I should meet on air,
in these whirling hyperloop palaces
of all burnished steel, treated glass,
Polish plumbers' expressions of effort
possessed of a breaking cold becoming
strangely humble,

as if you could meet anyone,
from anywhere,
when next break light chimes.

You and I should make an affair,
bathe in serendipitous twinkle of
Alexandra Palace hill light,
click heels and wish to tune
of Turkish butchers' instrumental clatter,
seeming soundtrack of Haringey

as if there could be anything,
all desires,
in off-beat pulse of gig space walls,

in the grandeur spiral of 8 million
we sometimes find ourselves.

as two points alighting the same.