I’m leaving. I’m leaving. Come with me please, please come with me. Its rain in the night, its not there, its full, full of anything.  There are spying stars.  There in the motorway there are people in the cars.  I’m leaving hobs turned off and heated, and coffee, stilling and black in the pot and if you come with me or not, I am leaving. This house is crowded, there are ghosts on the stairs, hair in the sink, arsenic in all my ink. We can go to Dover and from there who knows? This ship is sinking. The storm is wet, deaf and warm in our eyes and nostrils, and at the edge of day, light breeds with shade and fumes orange in the dawn.  Every time I light a flame and crackle the leaves in the tubes I am calling up a hunger. Every time I look at you your eyes are smaller, dryer. That point in the air where we marry our gazes is a clearing in the woods. Somewhere. Lets go, lets be going and then lets be gone.  Come away, come with me.

Quite disproportionately gone is the last evening.
Smoke. Long. Basic.

Quite utterly here
are the miscarriages of my imagination. dim   little   notes.
Guitar breath white
                           windows with a muddle of fingerprints
all   quite   quiet
   a radio
speaks to no one in particular.
no papers. must be sorted soon.

in sartorial brinks and swoops some food
below gathered in the great arcadian hall of the thick-aired kitchen.

James Child, stems and screwtops
                              parts of picked apart black cabs.
Fermentations of the mind, distilations of time.
   Thin lucid blood, fine tapestries of fire breathing nightshade operations
operating on angels, crystal eaters, wormholes and sea water-salty hair blandishments, skullandcrossbones
  purple fumes, sicilian deep, lefthand cuthroats
    sugar brown rocks, whirlpools and skyflashes
                           Running from you!
                                Running from you!

P.B.H.