His head turned and swivelled to the neighbourhood of close
stars. With his hands in gaberdine pockets he whistled.
Against the soft skinned, artificial cloth. Towards vast
characterless squares: his future’s intersections. As his
stride lengthened the sun weakened. A woman called out
across the acres of night. His face swelled like a moon
in close-up, and, smiling at me, read into fact, into calm
matter-of-fact: ‘I , too, am a poet.’
Of hands, leathery, raw. Of jutting jaw. Of the sure
step of ownership, the firm certainty of law.