When the genie appears, I’m in a frivolous
mood. First request? My mom’s apple pie.

slack in a bag from the freezer aisle
shaken out like shrunken grey memes
I long for the podding of beans

I go to the top of the risen hill,
above the trees, beyond the grass,
where only hard ground lives

We searched for it

through the tarmac in every rain-bruised sky
in dark Pennine shadows where great mills

spewed out ringlets of ghost-grey fog

I like to think it’s a story about himself and Einstein
floating in zero gravity, Albert sailing through the capsule
toward his drifting pipe, Brian playing We Will Rock You—

Sleep. 
Elusive as lucid dreams.

Closed eyes teem wotsit-orange,
spiderweb scarlet &
thatch-brown

Out again with the pitchfork churning 
compost into the old green bin, stinking
and silent as an ancient earthen vat.

This is not a frilly, mushy love letter 
to a city whose allure lies in defying all labels and holding the mystery key to a man’s heart, though none has ever been able to lay an absolute claim on it,