The sun does not fuss, days survive, clematis curates purple
in alleyways for blackbirds to core arcs in hunger, sing

to flowers, discourse evenings stretched on grass. Fingers 
frack surfaces, erupt touch, catch aphids, time, molten

cores, questions — questions like why is the asphodel so 
hardy in its narrow grass-like leaves, the stem elongating

the handsomest spike in white so unheard lives may 
meadow in its six flirting petals. The sun hides in roof-lines

past noon, enters fan vaults warming chimneys to seduce
the fattest pigeon lit like silty grains carrying miles. May

bees shake their own cowbells, vine inquisition into mahonia
blooming too early in inclines no right to smile, a kingdom of 

floating purr climbs a wall, wags tail like another species, in 
the field nearby goats cough, neigh soft, thud hooves, pretend 

to be stallions feeding a chorus of want wanting to stir, morning 
chairs touch napes of human arms inside a high street café, pine

flesh, the leftover rose, its wilting stem aching to sit upright, trace 
the night gone, one last glance at something to trail lost snails.