You: cross-continental shifter, coffee stains and creaking beams
Hold afloat your poets lips, your long-fingered hands that flick
Ash into my singing bowl,
Sinking in the corner.
We talk of heirs and graces, and little magics held in stone –
Twenty six symbols dance On paper. Different tongues.
The way you speak your seas
Drags my eyes to yours.
Wake to blue, and twisting smooth. It must be different,
Back home. Warmer; more dust perhaps? And taxi journeys
Full of better advice –
I cannot help it
But to smile at the paths of your ambitions, your will
To be here now, and soon. To drink your glass and
Draw your ashes, with me,
Here, on a seat, in a sinking room.
