And his legs were depth charges

and his knees were fossils waiting to be tapped open

and his ligaments were rifles wrapped in oilcloth under the floorboards

and his calves were the undercarriages of Shackletons.

The balls of his feet were where meteorites had landed

and his toes were a nest of mice under the lawn-mower.

And his footprints were Vietnam

and his promises were hot-air balloons floating off over the trees

and his one-liners were footballs through other people’s windows

and his grin was the Great Wall of China as seen from the moon

and the last time they talked, it was apartheid.

She was a chair, tipped over backwards

with his donkey jacket on her shoulders.

They told him,

and his face was a hole

where the ice had not been thick enough to hold her.

ROBINSON IN TWO CITIES

Cities of architecture and scaffolding, tower blocks

taking the temperature, external elevator-cars outpacing

window-cleaning cages, projects and broken deadlines, Robinson

near the station. All routes end here. Cities of junctions

and ring roads, inside lanes peeling off to the left

shunting traffic into neighbourhoods, districts, Robinson

on the loop bus, his third lap. Cranes making the skyline.

Cities of offences against the person, taxis and sirens

and crossing the street from nowhere to nowhere, Robinson

on foot. Cities at dusk, each outpointing the other

with starlings. A choice of evening papers, the bridge,

and later with his tightrope act along the ledge, Robinson

in two minds.

THE LOST LETTER OF THE LATE JUD FRY

Wake.

And in my head

walk barefoot, naked from the bed

towards the day, then

wait.

Hold.

The dawn will crack

its egg into the morning’s bowl

and him on horseback,

gold.

Me,

I’m in the shed, I’m

working on it: a plus b plus c, it’s

you, him, me. It’s

three.

Hell,

this hole, this shack.

The sun makes light of me

behind my back.

Well,

good.

I give you the applause

of ringdoves lifting from the wood

and, for an encore,

blood.

Look,

see, no man

should be me, the very opposite

of snowman:

soot.

I

work that black dust

where I slice your name into my forearm

with a jackknife: l.a.u.r.e.

y.

You

at the window now,

undressed. I underestimated him,

never saw you as a pair, a

two.

Yours—

that’s him for sure.

The sun will have its day,

its weeks, months,

years.

Fine.

But just for once, for me,

dig deep, think twice, be otherwise, be

someone else this time.

Mine.

TO POVERTY

(after Laycock)

You are near again, and have been there

or thereabouts for years. Pull up a chair.

I’d know that shadow anywhere, that silhouette

without a face, that shape. Well, be my guest.

We’ll live like sidekicks—hip to hip,

like Siamese twins, joined at the pocket.

I’ve tried too long to see the back of you.

Last winter when you came down with the flu

I should have split, cut loose, but

let you pass the buck, the bug. Bad blood.