There was a day when I saw how,
in time, the dead would blacken the sky –
uncalled except by the stirring of a drink
or today, biting into a ciabatta
the light dusting of flour on my lips
tasting like skin.

And more than that, how even
the unnoticed transits we make through this city
become afterwards, journeys;
the street names white in the headlights:
Jerningham, Vesta, Waller. Street after street crossed
until the river winds around a boneyard.

The sky is full of men on ladders
placing silver against silver,
building a long curve
that settles over the roof tops like a rainbow.
Promises, promises. When I am old
my eyelids will droop under the weight.