Perhaps the friends of Lazarus, who died
and slipped his shroud, on seeing him might swoon
or rush to hear the tales of that beyond
they hoped and feared to face.

God in his worn, greasy jeans like a car mechanic
is lighting a new life from an old one.

It takes ages. Tell me what it is you’re after
she says, when finally I get through.

I devoured the Olympics, filled my mouth
and scrapbook with sticky ephemera.

beneath night’s skin he unearths raw stones
serrated     encrusted    enigmatic    cold
 

we are at a cafe just round
the corner from hampstead
heath & sipping berry sunrise

Goya was an octopus that smelt of funerals on Mondays.
Sundays, the scent of getting ready.

The pain comes plucked from a field
in a garland of sunlight.

After many moons
I am perhaps readying to speak.