Another.  

I like it like this, you say, looking past us. 

This, call you ten minutes before, see if we can hang out. 

I can't do the, what are you doing three weeks from now? thing. 

Ask me, I don't know, ten minutes before... that's the way to do it. 

Ask me what I'm doing, if I'm free ten minutes before... then we'll talk. 

I'll be able to tell you. 


§
knowing when to restitch herself

On a pillow across knees
you're embroidering a new picture
your back to the sun
this brilliant light 
sparkling light conversation 
concentration.

Another needle spins records we were too young to hear live.

That old image, the back half 
of reverse thread is what I recognise 
the one you're stitching away from 
time to go

goodbye.
welcome.

§
Pipped.


You can’t just become a strawberry farmer, you said
trying to place a stem in the carton lid without taking
your eyes off the road.

You’d need the space… and staff. All the gear.
 
I took a bite and countered, mouth full of it  
not if you did it solo.

In the wing mirror I saw myself
forever in the same plaid
missing phone calls from the field
cane sunhat saving my neck
ever bending at the knees.


Solo?
I nodded, reaching. 

You’d get bored.



 §




Kos/Bodrum, summer 2014.


§


Again, Monday. 
 
There are two days no one sees him.
He swallows a library to see more clearly (hirundine).
To make them make sense.

Willing himself to move round corners
he reaches cul-de-sacs
and the cul-de-sac is quiet.

Further off, stone faces parade single file on
a path of blind approval.
He must focus on the road.
He must not look (rocket league).

§