There is no fucking
in this country
The odd moted afternoon sherry
when it’s almost allowed
to slip a cardigan
is not enough
Grey trudging people
growing to look like
their hateful dogs
Where is the blue?
Tasted yellow unravelling corners
and stamping shadows?
Ochre that sounds like it feels in your hand?
Give me hide lipped smiles beneath eyes that twinkle
punched through with random yoghurt teeth
Not toxic brown and grey or the slash of a dull vein and then the
pitter patter pitter patter
into stainless steel or porcelain
If you lift that broken glass to
another evening light you’ll see it is