A harbour in spring. Nice weather time.
Love takes to the air like a gull.
Beneath a tarpaulin sky,
cranes unload cargo like the hand of God
managing the world’s chequing account.
A coroner fingers a gut’s undigested bits.
At the stump of the dock a tourist centre
spills out another historical re-enactment –
this time, with feeling.
Fog squeezes between my chest’s anvil
and the afternoon hammering down.
Once lodged in a body a bullet can drift for years.
You said you’d be here. Clinically speaking,
at least one of us is breathless.