is a cold drained field with blazon white wind. When
I came off the ship there was no net.
It surged up shallow all around, in trees emptier
than the comforting sheet of an envelope, and
showed its wash-out til I was sick with the pride
of meeting its eyes.

Cold hands on my unfamiliar book: England is
the wrong bookmark for the wrong genre,
and the clumsy cough-up of summary. Amongst
the chattering of unshelved stories,
I'm an unread spine.

Sometimes I feel a love for England.
Ripping off the swathe of plane food.
Standing up to my tallest flight. But
sore hands are sorrowed by
lingering sandpaper dust; they would rather
leave the cleaning to the reader with bleach.