Writer In A Coffee Shop
Nobody sees as we do
— a conspiratorial attempt at flattery,
rising up from the books on the slanted shelves.
Vinyl albums are fixed to the ceiling,
you can get a stiff neck
searching out the soundtrack to your life.
Upstairs the sound of a tattooist,
reminds him of the dentist,
sets his teeth on edge,
of mottled brown.
He hears it still, that night
as she lies with her face to the wall,
a tree brooding in the back garden;
across the rooftops thoughts dissipate
yet still, that sound,
into goose flesh
In this savage sky,
in this ragged hour,
a low, winter sun
all flesh of inordinate pallor,
embarrassed by impotence.
Unravelling powder blue ribbons,
colouring brittle braids
blown among briered
mountains of white.
Black cattle bellowing
in coarse vernacular
a dumb language of instinct, lust.
And crying like a child, each insipid sow.
You can smell the sea,
but not see it,
cupped in hands of granite,
Suffering the separation
of centuries, more.