The clouds in Flanders patrol the sky in gangs.
They bully buildings that rise above their station.
Trust me. I am no Surrealist, I am a businessman.
Today I saw this happen. I filmed it with my eyes.
By the railway, an office block, all barbs and angles,
smashed the sun like a twenty-storey obsidian club.
Black-shirted clouds encircled it, spat rain. A cumulus
threw an uppercut. The block tightened its abdominals
and the aggressor bounced off into the troposphere.
The rest of the gang jumped in. The block fought back.
Some ran. A snivelling stratus sneaked aboard our train.
We squeaked into Brussels, our carriage woolly with tears.
* * *
At the station bar, a glass of beer handed me a waiter.
Release me, sir, pleaded the waiter. I must serve this nun
whose nose is an apple. With splayed fingers, the waiter
scrumped the nun’s nose to expose a skull full of bells.
She sneezed and a tinkling angelus silvered the bar.
A crack opened in the air – a cut-out of a dove in flight.
Stars winked in the beer’s caramel twilight. On its head
I scrawled This is not foam, then blew into town and banged
on your door, Monsieur Magritte. See how my lungs
billow, swags of cloud. Fork-lightning shocks my veins.
I have become a storm. Now, Master, draw me within
the dove’s wings. Crown me with stars as night comes.