'History' is irrelevant, only chemical emotion matters. To feel, or not to feel. Don't think about it.

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Unimpressed.

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It never quite goes away, no matter how much I'll forgive it.

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The wet street--an invoked night sky.
The night city, aglow and slick
pavement, mirror, the way a cloudless
view of stars should blow from a storm.
Above, there is concrete. I love
an inversion.

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Drunk as a turned tuning fork.

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A backpacker's bed in Exeter.
Cat of smell cricked around my back
neck, tasting a recent guest.
So I spoke. Instead of breathing.
Pushed out, out that first take.
Made a fold in my bed. A triangle in linen.
Placing my lips around your phone.

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How more like life, than to walk
on a crust of ice. Snow,
the dissembled puzzle--
refrozen, at its almost last life.
Once came soft, then together--
then, the breaking of a stanza.

--cracking, the pale ground,
not quite earth.
To walk, with flat, snake, feet,
on the crispest dirt.

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Under snowfall, the sky lit
as an eerie summer day.
Where you may lay in that sepia noon,
this was our evening, pushed upside--
to the sky, instead of from it.

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The course wind from the underground--
up by the esculators, flooding with refuse from below,
onto the upper streets. Terrible, hovercraft fans,
still, now, but in summer,
push even human waste, exude-vapour,
up onto an incinderary city. --Pushes,
and nods to the sky's great (secret) vacuum.

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I've missed the rain in London
--and this is not a reminice.
It has been a dry-powder-
air--fine, clustered pollen.
I sneeze! on clean air.

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The train was delayed for a swan on the line.

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I'd never seen a nuclear power station before.
I was heading to oxford,
and its vases sat,
undisturbing the surrounded ground. --
A curve that was unlike the countryside.
Bespoke.

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Almost a motto: Just. Keep. Walking.
I can understand your pushing the Earth away
all over the dusk,
night a prelude to more day.
Crouched in bookstores, reading novels,
till being pushed, to keep moving on.
It's a way of not being in place,
and less cruel.

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