AFTER 39
Go to the Brown’s, buy a Felinfoel and ask for me, they know where I live… Dylan Thomas
I eat leek soup at Brown’s
crusty fresh baked bread
sparkling water teetotal disrespect
to Dylan’s whisky watering hole
unpaid tabs settled by tourists
we sit in the window seat
wood worn by regulars nursing defeat
selfie the moment our faces pressed close
poets under jet lag influence
travelling from the country where he died
we congratulate ourselves on making it past 39
boot up our writing gear
notebooks ditched for efficiency
I delete the way Dylan didn’t
hilltop studio strewn with crumpled attempts
tinder for the fireplace
I almost didn’t make it past 39
no Chelsea Hotel death after a binge
or wife beat scarred days
my sickness stays untranslated
to this impersonal screen
where the good night is not gentle
but a dark that does not go
the ocean stops me
blue always
I can’t practice empathy today
gather rocks at Ambroth beach
drive narrow roads
into a future
I couldn’t dream at 39
she next to me
moist green land
we bathe the North Sea
off each other’s bodies
tongues salty
neck earlobe lip
her love my blood paces
artery/vein my
heart a moon
Pulling