We awoke in the tacky caul
of communion merlot, a vernix
of old fags about our cracked lips.
We could hear
From the noise of the milk float's tyres
that it had rained overnight
then we felt it in our coats.
Bottles we'd drunk deeply from
now clanked about our ankles
like shale or blown-glass crabs.
I would have kicked them aside, but my legs
were vacuum tubes in a burnt-out set
and we hadn't had breakfast, yet.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
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