The grey man Slowly shook his head My imperfect soul Will vouch for me – Me and Shakespeare Lost my ticket, somewhere Pockets turned out Like elephant ears Quite rude Banging on the cold glass door Only two allowed In the waiting room We are old On Wednesday afternoons The sky criss-crossed by snails The phlebotomist says The blood coming out Makes a hissing sound A minuscule amount, but Enough for tinnitus Feeling quite deflated Morning birds make lopsided croupier calls The breaking cloud throws gold coins beneath their beaks Confused at the taste There is a spiral In cat’s fur Constellations warm Beneath your hand With the musk scent Of rising static A brief, intoxicated calm
