I
Something wrong under this bit of pavement –
some resettlement of grit or sand –
has tipped the slabs to make a shallow dish,
a bowl of rain we have to walk around.

Though it’s an inconvenient arrangement
no one complains, there are no roadworks planned;
because we know the council isn’t rich
we watch our feet on its uneven ground.

Everything must be paid for, saved, or spent
except this derelict liquid silver island
glinting with the inner-city mix
that drags my eye down through its lost-and-found:

chicken bones, matchsticks, dogshit, water fleas,
corroding copper wishes, bright 5ps.




II
What am I doing, talking to a puddle?
I don’t talk to people or to birds;
...