Pink scud clouds over the bridges,
Vauxhall, Lambeth, Battersea,
spider-work. Black. The syllables
of water, black. Go. Stay. Met
in air, met in water, and I a child
of summer born far from here
on a Thursday. A Thursday, you say?
Far to go and full of woe.
And what year was it, the house
a page torn from the calendar,
a foolscap boat filled with paper
ballast, bisecting the waves
until they parted, impossible to let
a single page go, and the thud
when the tide hit the bank? A year
to remember. Give me your hand
across the water. Once I went down
when the tide was out and the stones
ashimmer, obsidian in the moonlight,
the ivy brackish and the toads
dry in their den. Come out
from the fountain, maenad
made of green stone, moss-flecked
bone and your teeth chattering.