I was rushing to board the late-night train,

where she stood in front of the barricade;

wearing a red, blue dress, under a yellow high vest,

a Motorola radio with a long, slender antenna

teased her palm and her nose, vibrating her lips.

I approached the barricade with my Oyster card,

and was about to tap in when they touched me.

I was like Jesus, touched by the female seeker.

There was something intense in her hands

wriggling towards the ground like gold rings,

as if anxious to be free of her body mass.

It was a stream of fingernails like yellow leaves

hanging from the low branch of a rich tree,

or a flower or a shrub tossed in the wind,

towards the dusty ground like bullets in transit,

where they would wriggle like mosquito coils,

or a pile of pythons unleashing its venom.

No horror nor fear gripped my heart and feet

but a curiosity beyond what I had felt before.

So many things crisscrossed my stunned mind

about the things I could do with such acquaintances;

how I could stretch them from the East to the North,

across the River Thames to draw buckets of water,

rather than wait for eternity for the midnight rain.

I could stretch them towards the blue sky,

poke Heaven into yellow and green or red,

or install disco lights on the bulbs of the clouds,

light streaming down in an avalanche with soft rays;

or I could pluck a hole through the clouds,

send a missile to Heaven for the angels to know

the pain of innocent children trapped in war zones

and rip Heaven apart discussing a ceasefire,

if days elapsed without the sunshine peace,

or I could form my fingernails into a valley

where all killer mosquitoes would drown

without sucking the blood of sinless sleepers,

who hope for a miracle while dead to time.

I would not attempt to hang around my house

waiting for the wind to send the river to me.