As though that was that.
On my lichened headstone
with its one-legged crow and pet bat.

Say, sprawled in wet grass alone face down.
Say, on a coach near Doncaster,
the last of the pills wearing off,
no stars.

As though that was that. Finito.
The motto, ‘This is an irrevocable position,’
tattooed on the world’s arm.

In the field, broken. Rain
from a starry sky. Tufts of stiff grass
into the right cheek. Sobbing.

On the coach, no French girl to French kiss.
No way back. Nothing available
in the mind. What mind? Just –
that was that. Rain. No stars.

Having no green fingers
I believe that the girl whose mother
loved dogs, hated her,
is biting my hand for warm blood.
She will always need to do this
I fervently, secretly believe.
It’s my faith. It’s what I know.
How we cling to our outworn icons.

But somehow, slow motion,
a penny starts its balletic spiral
through the machine’s little drama of cogs.
Look! There it goes!
The penny! How gracefully
unexpected. She’s telling me –
‘close your eyes!’– then…. ‘open them’–
it works!! (A bit).
It works!

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