In

In

The women are armed with brochures
but you don’t want to walk down that street,
to where the post box waits with its lips
baby bell split, inviting wanting.

Someone is letting off fireworks
but only when you sleep, bit parts come running
in to say they see graphic love lines
Escher slipping down kitchen sinks.

There’s a shine there somewhere;
in the edge of a table leg, a xylophone suddenly singing,
and the best thing is just to join in
as all the furniture is already out the door and dancing.

Build bowls of clemantines, pot things
at the vestige of a pickled onion lamppost.
Wait outside a café and breathe how beautiful the city is
when you blink the carbon in.

The main people are arriving
and for a minute be not sure if you care
what part of their humanity they are trying to engage you with.
The stretch of skin between breasts is so thin

and there is something under there beating.