There are fewer
Things in life
Finer when your wallets
Empty
Than the burn
Of a bottle of red
Left on windowsill
In the full roar
Of the lion sun
Or that cigarette butt
With at least four
Inhalations left.
Or eating
Children
Women & men
The elderly
Frail
Trees, stolen
Fruit emerald green
Harsh blackened
Bricks,
Gherkins, entire
Films and inky symbols
The mind makes
Plastocine figures from
I catch sight of myself
In a shop window
Eyes as big as beachballs
And I try to swallow
Myself.
