Spring came. The days’
lit-match life span made
winter – the moor hen’s
winkle pick cross iced
canals, frost furred
brick weed – seem closer.
The snow crystal’s threads
Incarnate in the green boughs.
The park stank. Concrete
stilts spring light
Hawthorne, rot spore white,
Corpse skunk smell hangs
Like a white shadow.
FBI snub, dull
black blank firer, Gun Mart
fifteen plus p+p
before Dunblane. He
sighted the blind barrel,
blessed the bullets
with a cross
freeing, at a beckon,
grey doves in heavy metal jackets.
Fish quim stock – only
place for it now feds
crotch-checked men -
did it for him more than sex,
or when, shanked
for being Bow in E8
he saw his blood
behind her nails
a week later.
He rode one handed, gun
hot slippy, catch off
Saw them; fired, kick
threw him off his bike.
A man falls face first
onto his Tesco BBQ.
Park emptied like it’d
been tilted on its side.
He set his arm along
the plane trunk. Looked up –
blue-backed lime diamonds.
He set a dove on them
shot the breeze until
the sirens started.
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