A Tourist
Afterwards the map became
places to contemplate
rather than visit,
names or sounds to linger
in the troubled gut,
scratches and bites to heal.
In a cold bath, perhaps asleep,
he looks as green as the tiles,
as thin as the soap,
and we can hear, beneath his soft breathing,
words that sound like
the things I’d have whispered
if your tongue was mine
Local experts are divided
on whose tongue, what things,
or if he is even speaking at all.
Old wives say
a squid has grown inside him
and now, with tender limbs,
squeezes his heart.
*Adam Warne is yet another Norwich poet.
