5:32

It is too nice a day to be living in England.
The civic art is excellent here,
poems in the paving
and a cast-iron fatty on the forecourt.

I meet my friend beneath the worst sculpture
at five thirty – her favourite time of day.
There’s a bullet hole in the window
of my favourite café – O Lord – and it is
actually beautiful when you get up close,
like a fucking snowflake.

I am using You lightly again – for this
or that fellowship. We have no other
readily available signifier
and that is partly Your fault.

It is no longer her favourite time of day.
The sky is wet concrete.
I am making an effort
and commending the chicken pie
as if I own this place.

I am desperate to be accepted.

A beautiful girl walks past the window
and our eyes meet for a moment;
I imagine she is on the way to buy a white bicycle
and cruise – no-handed – past the worst
sculpture, out to the ordinary park,
where she will lie down beneath the pagoda
and, at some point, I expect, she will phone me.

A man with a white moustache
like a frozen waterfall
is laying string on the pavement.
It is Godish to see someone carry
out a specific task.

I like to speak to the police in England.
I particularly like to share a joke with them.

Now he is laying out cardboard boxes.

Forgive me, while I use You again:
I am too tired to improve myself
with Eric Clapton on the radio,
his guitar playing
the trajectory of a gull.