I am evanescent
and you might taste of apple pie,

…there, a baby bawls vowels
into the atmosphere
and yes, we are going somewhere,
here, necessary nutrients.

I speak of an ideas-full cauldron -

a tree falls in a wood
and we hear it,
a calamity of cracking,

the way days crack
and melt to viscous pools.

Would you look at that?

…the cup, not wet. Where’s
the cider poured from
my own two hands?

Always gift yourself thunder, or at
the very least, you say, bruised clouds.
A little drizzle an ointment, welcome.

Point made: steadiness is underrated.
If my appetite’s fine, I’ll eat
it for breakfast, milk splash to soften.

Curtains open,
an autumn morning’s light
tumbles into the room.

Overnight, a stray leaf,
muddy-skinned with skinny veins
has somehow slapped

itself against the window.
The downpour, slept through,
but heard fragments,

the wind’s remonstrations,
beads of rain as though sorting
through buttons.

And there, on the glass, a soggy
brown symbol. Silent call for help,
a new place to make home.

I’d only popped in
to buy lunch, as usual,
and one of those high-in-sugar

latte cans for a colleague
who needed her five a day
and by 'five a day' I mean coffee,

when I saw him, I don’t know
who, but him, with a few pasties,
plastic-smothered, a bag of

what I think are the hard mints
****** only in moments
of desperation on car trips.

I thought of stopping him, I did,
a flash of something heroic,
tackling him rugby-style

on the pavement, back slaps
from strangers praising me on
my predilection for crime prevention.

But I didn’t. I feel bad, but look,
I had a tuna sandwich in one hand,
crisps and two drinks in the other,

plus, the queue was getting longer, too.

The rain slaps the windows.

She is so sad.
There are tears, sad tears, but quiet,
barely visible.

The drink is brought
to her by a young waitress
who wears white trainers.
What to say

to someone with wet cheeks?
Steam rises from her cup of chocolate
in grey punctuation.

Measure minutes by sniffles.
A man shoots an umbrella open,
the rain sounds like a shaken box of nails.

Her evening, upturned, quiet tears,
so sad. O girl, let me dip
a slippery finger
in the chalk moon,

mark your table with a white star.
Her tears are the story,
as the weather, so fluid.

Time and time again
rose petals unspool from your chest,
floral television.

Even the starlings know by now
what’s being done. Drips of another
world, an eastern tongue, like

syrupy pills, not prescribed
but there’s enough to go round.
Wash down with ginger ale, a sugar plum

for the road. Afternoon’s bleeding on.
Boy, call again when you can
in discreet tones. Don’t need me to say

it’s better when names are unknown.

In the most random of places.
Like the sandwich section
at Tesco, on your lunch break,

mobile shuddering in your pocket,
agitated by attention. Then,
at the self-service, an image forms,

a memory, dust-heavy and wonky
from lack of recall. Why was it
the dialogue between you

became a drought? The thought
like a blood test. A little pinch, then
the gentle withdrawal.

Don’t look at me.
The bulb busted last night
and now, one day later,

it’s happened again.
A fluke? No, do you really need
to call an electrician?

Faulty wiring, maybe,
or coincidence, an oddity,
rare but possible, like

a win on the lottery.
You ******* in the new one,
a white wink, then death.

Could be a sign mate.
Doesn’t want to be fixed,
no quick hurrah, no donation of light.