Breaking Winter up by shooting numbers from the clock
The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming
long grass and birds on the wire
I have memories no deeper than this glass and some
besides that stretch history twice
In a super 8 film colour haze, a scratched nostalgia that
runs through my cogs - shot through the fog; time taking
care of whatever I cared about
So you are lost somewhere in here - your body, a
raft,spinning towards the falls
Your death claimed me too - there were two throats in the
noose but mine now swallows whiskey, mine is not now
bruised
The black mouth of this month, bruised lips, black ice,
forms a sickly smile across London's sky
