Perhaps our oranges will turn to bronze
and the citric acid in the satsumas won’t sting our lips.
When soldiers die, we will inhabit the quiet boats
of their souls and float, dazzling star-spreads,
down the one-way mirror waters of the Rhein.

Like dustbin men, before the sunrise rouses heartbreaks and birdsong,
we could collect the skittle-dispersions of broken wine-glasses,
pierce the bridges with the agate sword points
and mountaineer over the summit of the silt
thrashing through the crème brulée skin of lost mussel shells.

When you misguided my finger, oh that, my rope, was when
the clams, the corks, the tramlines,
closed without a creak.