The difference between Monday and Sunday;
A vague salt upon the upper lip of some life apart,
Pages incarnate in an acrid stomach guilt,
And some bread and wine selling out
Before I make it to the queue.

Between the rest, perhaps a better hour;
A few words absorbed, wrapped in cling film
Like the ham and pickle I take on the train,
On the bread leftover from the priest on Sunday. Slightly stale.

For the most part, I try to keep on my shoes
And off the grass. The cling film makes it
Exceedingly difficult to know -
And I can never quite discern
The start of the horizon.

And the irony of it is, I can’t cling to much
Myself. City smog is honeysuckle riding
A summer’s breeze; Singapore slings,
Coffees and teas, and daydreams of you
Are more real than me.

It’s like looking through a car window,
Seeing outside rush away behind you
Before you can think about how beautiful it is.
Like having tired of a masterpiece from which
You expected timelessness.