Fushimi Inari
We walked into the dark-
-er and darker red gates and long long steps
a key between my teeth
shiny shiny boots plastic
cup of warm white wine
you’re not losing your way
we’re just tired and yes
the only way is up
I’ll have another
cup and oh, look at that view
who knew the night has a grain?
there are lights dancing across
the surface of my eyeballs
Stockholm
Having too many
books records chairs
rocking horses bell cloches
cacti coils of tarred rope unframed
paintings maps of the Far East children
half finished packets of tea occasional
tables frayed rugs your collection of spoons
refracting telescopes spare
boxes of salt liquorice
I still stay indoors
Having already decided
that fingerless gloves were a mistake
blaming TV serials literary American novels
boutique clothing outlets my mother two
sticky glasses of half forgotten port the romance
the romance
Having dreams of packing just one bag
opening the shutters in July and sweeping
the leaves from the front step
repainting the peeling yellow paint
sitting down to enjoy my holiday
John Boursnell is a writer living in Glasgow, Scotland.
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