Our town kips
under a pall of pie-smoke. We’ll both be eaten by
hours, by mislaid flowers, my northern caff.
Cigarette butts, Olbas oil, blobs of porridge.
We’ll both be eaten by flowers, by mislaid
hours, my northern town. Town,
the old front-porch
after lectures; the rush
of water-light tips over carried books, held hands, idle
papers below high windows; faces, tossed
in all their oceanic thoughts. These rooms are proof of
bachelor fog, cigarette stubs, Olbas oil.
A spyglass, overhanging
the quad: damson, pear-cider, tangerine.
One boy trips over
another’s tongue; every sense trained on
the juicy stall. Cashew,
tissue. Gently, at first – Miss King rinsing her parts
in the bathroom of my mind. Ribbons
tugged, bruised knees.
She kept her blouse intact. What a cheek.