In the biting morning I live in exhaust pipes;
their thrum is home my throat is dry I ate
a church some time ago.
Am I your night sun
-everybody treasures a mountain-
and the hunchback timber yard worker gazing at a Surrey seagull (I really saw that)
is a hundred times more eloquent
than a well-constructed political statement.
In a future
galvanic reality I’m translated, explained, ordinary
and they know why and how and exactly when and due to what
specific chemical imbalance
I write like this;
I’m every dimension of tightroping
on a jackstay.
Extreme situations are my niche;
on the street I’m anyone
when I write I am the litigant in person
and now that you found me
I want to be found again and again.
I know where to go from here
and shouldn’t have stayed up for the election results;
less surrealism, more rugby fans urinating into beer cans on the train.
There you go: a whole poem
and not a single mention of love.