One afternoon in an art gallery. Two days at your Gran’s by the sea. Tea and cake in the expensive café at the top of the department store. Half an hour running across London
There’s nothing I can determine from the way you hold your coffee, or the slice of yellow in your iris, so I hold the bracelet you bought me, glass redcurrants skished in my palm.
The floor under the window is getting lighter but when I quote Bob Hoskins in ‘Hook’, you switch on the light to write a speedy poem on a page already containing