Happily, there are moments that wedge themselves
like the splintered bones of birds
in the throat of what’s swallowing us.
the arse-end of the Seine,
wet woollen clouds, the sun barely dressed
above the rooftops,
me drinking Ricard and smoking
like Gainsbourg in my caleçon.
It’s eating our lives,
shitting our days and nights
in piles, but looking back some things
rise up full-bodied and clean
like this and my false-memory of you in London
high on a line of Tituba,
a beautiful, wild-thing with exquisite breasts
ready to fly from a bedsit window
in Herne Hill. Who can
regret the steady effacement when
such moments live like let-go balloons
defying extinction against the blue?