Poem 545

6pm again, dying of the day and closing down of possibilities …

( I like an hour like a derelict ship … )

Letter Home

When was I born
                                  what hour
I mean you never told
me was it night midnight
perhaps or six in the
evening an hour like a
derelict ship the food
still hot ship's log 
missing

that girl you
wanted to know about
runs a shop up north just
like she said she would stopped
biting her nails closes up
tight at six
                    she comes to
see me now and again