Pembroke
Ghosting through the bazaar
to escape the heat, reaching
into bowls of old bullets, eye glasses
that still unfold, wood print blocks,
tins for Oxo, a telescope
that concertinas out to space
and back to a small weight
in your pocket,
there is another woman.
She’s wearing my baseball cap
my tie-dye vest,
the same detached expression
on her face. She reaches slowly
to open a box –
a hall of mirrors.
Our profiles pass at corners
multiplied then distorted,
stretched from each other
till we are so thin
and so far
we form a single unending line.