I am a gangrel, a vagabond beyond
your threats of redemption. When I purse
my whelk lips, the district nurse
flies off her handles. Into the ditch
with her, thatís my tip. There is bandage
around the moon which tucks up
the clouds in my night: a pink gauze
which stanches the bleeding hearts
around here. The moss stirs under my coat.
I prise my cigarette loose from
the skins of my fidgety lip. I kip
on a bag of chisels. My sleeping is yelp
and dogskin, blanket and the stuffed mulch
of my mouth. Do not ask me time:
I do not know how the world whips round,
nor will I tell you how the ground rasps.