I think about Scotland
the way no Englishman should dare,
and distance doesn't mean much. Old pearls
above my jawline, I am confident:
if I drive ten miles into any city, all I need
will be waiting in the center, patiently sitting,
rubbing smooth his small cross of Lorrain
in silent protest and deafening anxiety.

My English streets are silver with snowdust,
and my wall-portraits align, hanging
straight and tying my life and limb
with horse hair pillars, well
manipulated. We wrap my waist and move me
below the floor plates
of a foreign sea, through hidden tunnels
and backwoods caverns.

When the waters freeze,
I think about Scotland
and find it is a switchblade
that has been waiting. I think, and I find
it must not be for me, though the
electric bills are high, and I fear
the portraits must be cut down soon
for more practical functions.