In spring, all the raindrops have his details.
She steps out to freshen up, at once the clock and the mirror
start to conjure the doves and rabbits of new conjugations.
Fleshed in, like travellers of high passes trapped by snow
they see how they will spend the night now.
Money roars in the storm, they pay it no heed.
And for hours, they turn their kittens into lions,
lions into kittens.
Sketched-out utopias brought them to this,
to Siamese meows and avalanche whispers,
and no one else can reach them here,
they are devoted to their dream
of the most elegant whiskers and the clots of cream
dripping slowly from them.
So much for threatening poverty.
So much for revolution.

Cheap drunks, they lurch from kiss to kiss.
And some of their moments seem the same,
like telephone booths between
Clark Kent and Superman.
Other moments have the weight and slumped stillness
of a bull just rolling breathless in the ring,
the matador left to ponder
any significance in the passing.
Once you begin falling, then that’s fate she says.
He doesn’t understand,
and his mind has already wandered.
There’s a world to book, and they must rush to board it
before it leaves on time
without them.

Autumn, and of course, the scene has changed.
The mirror grows bare like a northern river.
As he migrates, a muted tune he hums,
his thoughts are elsewhere.
He embodies most the vagaries of life,
like telephone numbers written down on skin
washed off without realising.
She has become a few bars from a distant song,
and all his memories cages.
Yet he is safe enough.
His milieu is the future:
he rarely remembers.

A brigand slipping drugs into a victim’s drink,
he keeps writing poems for unsuspecting readers,
and doesn’t notice that they don’t exist,
or that, having mixed up his cups,
he draughts himself to complete oblivion:
in any case, even if he does succeed,
having rifled through luggage for hours on end,
he never finds anything worth stealing.
In a history arranged by victors,
the defeated have their place assigned, but he
is forgotten even by the defeated,
his winter is a seizure on an abandoned trail.
Frozen out, his literature dwindles to a dot dot dot
of footnotes upon a wilderness,
a blur of marks in sensitive felt tips,
in scraps and glitter from an icy folklore
a singing fish chopped down to a silent
silver of scales.
Yet, he is safe enough:
his milieu, we recall, is the future.
And in spring, all the raindrops have his details.