Thursday, September 15, 2011


the platform is a pebble’s width from the sand,
a wash of frothy sea my morning sound.
I smell salt, and
broken shells – ripe, bursting seaweed
newspaper print.

the train slicks into view,
a gleaming rocket,
with station-bought coffees and
station-bought toast in
damp paper bags.

the city is erupting;
drills shake my feet and
charity buckets shake themselves
the street smells like
someone has blown out a birthday candle.
coffee shops with morning pastries,
and pavement dust, and sour:
cigarette smoke blown into faces.

a craving for rain
to wash it all clean,
and a craving for home,
for air you can breathe.