Colleagues munching bap and burger
thought Ramadan was that juicy winger,
his scorching pace soon snaffled up by City.

Sings at the top of the bare-branched tree
an aubade to morning
welcomes the light,  
early spring, season of nest-making.

as the tanker tore
its throat against the
shallow spine, as
the village unravelled

Between the trees dust shifts,
light fractures like a prism.
A cathedral silence greens the air.

The French term terrain vague enfolds
a plot of land I thought at first was vague,
undefined and malleable.

mornings
I wake wary
of abundance
wondering why I’m still here
and then I recall
all the green leaves
with their hiding birds

I’m trying to stop thinking about what I want to not // be. Sometimes I have looked into my heart and found that // everything’s packed up.

I want to be two-tongued again

To go back to the time when I slipped
from one language to another with ease,

You retreat back to your bedroom,
your headset cooler than any
sunlight . . .