Car Camping down Rosehill
The streetlights are off, but still I imagine that somewhere in the Arctic a glacier flushes, shrugs a spearhead into the sea. This pavement I know from skateboards and bicycles, which bumps to swerve, the drain-cover rumble and the curb that would hoist you over the handlebars. A different kind of skin-trade, those days, the hot shock of bloody knees. Of TCP. My feet are wedged against the dashboard as I point out a fox scything low-nosed across the road, even though I know that you’ll miss it, so that what I am left with is the memory of your neck, endoned and twisted and trying to see, while the clouds pale through the windowscreen. And it’s then that I might say again, how strange it is to watch the dawn well up unheard on your own house.
Jessica Mayhew the poems