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Cut-out, cool city steps before,
And sculpted sea behind
It is as it always was.
Stone like solid water,
Damp pavements pooled with odd drops.
Fifteen-year-old oak barrel malted whiskey,
Dripped in cool dirty water.
Older than cloudy breath,
From those first blood-filled lungs.

And my lips are parting:
White pirouettes,
Smoke-seeming,
Still breaths left;
Sucked in by passing man-in-hat
Who should be walking-dog
Not Sunday-walking alone.

Breaking silent, static lanes;
A joy, like crushing sugar cubes.
Uncouth mix,
Sweet swirling
Breaths left between sucks.
The sex of solutions
Mixed on tongues.

Skips full of sticks:
Decent firewood, I’m thinking;
Onto the scent already.
Mixed memory bag;
Of burning the driest wood we found,
In spaces, cut-out clearings,
Where soil is shallow,
Thin roots spread fast.

A can tint-tintles
Past my feet,
To meet the motion
Of a parking car’s wheel.
Crushed by nerves less than steel,
Somewhere in there I give up
A resolution.

Mercury moves
Along gate-tops
Swung shut or quivering inwards
Open to a shifty, puffed-up cat.
Despite appearances,
And against his principles,
He could have pushed his body
through the bars.