Poem
Stitch and unpick
With one foot already through the turnstile, night turns in
and flies board the fruit trucks at the edge of town.
The muezzin unbuttons the gates: it is late June.
Passengers escape with the wind and empty cartons
their hats and scarves
made immodest by the gale.
Outside, gulls hollow out slow arcs.
I shake and hang up behind the bathroom door,
hemmed still in half-sleep
with ivy leaping like frogs over the house.
