The robot was much admired in Valencia,
Sheer contours fussed over
By several local girls. Deep in its mesh eye socket,
You could swear, almost, it gave a second’s wink.


Second round exit


What happens to failed football campaigns?
The sad players, the hurt manager, who remembers them
After the winners have gone home? Such brief passion,
Such brief fire: lifting the cup years later, in supporter’s dreams.

The survivors


No man could have loved woman more in those days,
No one have looked at you with such enraptured eyes. Seriously,
Who were the other contenders? That bat-faced bastard Roland,
Who I shot, or Mario the conductor who wound up in La Paz?

I ran into the whale out on the freeway,
My white three-wheeler coming to a dead halt.
I got out the car and its beady eyes twinkled,
The whale, miles from ocean, breathed on the asphalt.

This is Anfield


Hodgson is sweating
In the dug-out.
The fans around him
Are choruses of doubt.

Every time I see you its like someone plays a sonata in the room
And I speak in hushed tones from the audience.
It is years since someone made an entrance in my life,
And played with their voice on the keys of my self.

The Heads


In the brilliant late summer sunlight
A trio of heads are draped in white cloth.
They are to be unveiled, these cool stone faces,
To lips crying out for those who follow them.

The little one


The child cries alone
In the great black
Waking its parents
Their hearts insomniac.

No cigar


She apologized for not sleeping with me
As we went to bed. I nodded, untroubled;
We lay apart together,
Her in a soft face mask.

Thinker’s prism


We are the Universe reflecting on itself,
Says my friend over couscous salad.
We are reflecting on a West Yorks landscape,
Down over the downs, to the town’s slate crop.