Eight Poems

Hymn to November

Strangers are tethered to dogs, or sit
in oversized and idling cars, or bear
heavy coats and bags as ballast.
I keep myself grounded with stones
in my pockets, stuck in the treads of my boots.


Yet this morning the city itself
could take-off, in such blind winter light.
Our words rise up in rapture,
and breath curls like an offering.
Old stones re-cast as celestial.

Amid all this weightlessness, a beggar
strips in the street, wants out. No-one helps.
There is no way to the soul
but through the body. A butcher hangs
a haunch inside his window.Ave.
...