pisces

pisces

the cold of February, lazy-lidded

and chill to the lip kiss,

causes me

to lose myself,

in a pretence of Scandinavia.

i don’t know where

i am lost.

i know i am, lost;

practising guttural sounds

with suppertime starlings.

my language is not real.

but determined, in pitch and fall;

imagined sounds of enunciation.

a quiet man,

practiced at practice.

spoken practice,

shivered in evenings

aglint with star-spun,

northern lights,

everything

suddenly redundant,

in the howling glare

of a petrol forecourt.