Manor Park

She sat on
at Stratford
next to me

in the tin
of huddled
passengers,

where soft clothes
, kept sandwiched
between air

& our tired
warm fixtures,
ruffled slow.

& there she
lazed herself
in a daze,

fingering
the blonde ends
of long hair.

I was in
no mood fit
to read but

my skull on
the window
as one might

kiss their teeth
until I
looked up

to ,over
Manor Park
cemetery,

see the sun
so much like
a blindness

overcome the
autumn clouds
& grace us.

still, she played
with sparked ends
of blonde hair;

all around
her a glow
that she threw

but could not
see, a gold
ornament

of fidget—
edging me ,
my sighs &

vision, aged,
off the plinth
towards home.

Untitled