Split

The buses
terminated at Deptford Bridge,
I remember that much;
And the coffee
that sluiced brownly
around the Costa rim from trembling.
And the smile
that grew and vanished
like hot breath on a window.
And the blue shoes
that sidled strangely
across the silken station floor
for want of conversation,
or action,
or more.

Apart from that
everything was a sort of suspended,
split-ended reality,
that smoked all hope

out of hiding,
and feasted madly
on the leftovers
of our love.