London Bridge
The water under London Bridge
makes mirrors.
I fall down here, at our leaving place
into my
underground
nerve system
shooting trains and misfires
on the same ancient stuck patterns
making me sick.
But before, and after, this was my joke fantasy – a train station.
Look at that giant stretched crystal piercing the city crust beside us.
Movie crowds streaming a million ways and me with a way to go,
no tourist now.
This place is two places
like Regent’s Canal where I swung legs last summer
and held as you cried this summer,
and this bed where I told you once-things first
but cupped you with a sick, sunken stomach too.
I think the mirrors are doors
Where I creep from to steal my own place,
holding my head underwater behind my back.
