AUDIO
Old man clock
with his hateful eye
gleams near seven,
and we run
as though in a dream
up the platform
where each step drags
like concrete.
We press together
through crowds
till our hands burst apart.
You blot out,
swallowed by some
woman’s hat, some
city man’s back.
Like mountains between us
says Tariq,
and no promised passage
to help us get through
to the next stop.
Like mountains between us,
says the big train,
says the high hat,
says the turned back,
and no promised passage
to the next stop.
_____________________________
like fish passing
through a rock-pool
tantalised by some
glimpse of sky.
They are always at
odd angles, in medias res,
but framed, formal
as though trapped in paintings,
or the aqueous liquid
of an open eye.
