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.

Each year in March, on the eighth day,
the one we’re allowed to call ours,
slowly, Jess reads our names . . .