It’s a direct drive of fifty litres

From me to you.

Six hundred miles north

Until I’m resting my eyes on your face:

That soothing easy care

From the dial and touch

Of your features

The mixed fabric of your voice

Trickling through my cells.

I am freestanding

But will bloom

When you enter the room.

Until then,

I’m in this intensive

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I found my bliss 

Heading south on the A23

She’s a rollerskate

He’s a magnet 

Like the easy way 

Water slides down your throat. 

Me, a pearl of existence 

Gently cooking in this black car 

Heat. From July. Discomfort 

In the way my baths

Are always stifling. 

A glissando of tyres 

Droning down to the coast 

Under a weatherless sheet 

Of baby blue...

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