At Templeborough melting shop





I held the rail

next to you

as the lights

went on

making me jump


I believed

to myself

that you were

as complicated as

the way they make the steel:

some weird

ancient alchemy,

some witches’ brew

of chemical equations

and jumping sparks

I was wondering about

burning up in your atmosphere


and how every time

John Mayer and his collarbones

remind me

it makes me cry

for the

lonely artist

in you,

the one who

makes pictures

so beautiful

and effortless

the one who

piles music

I have never heard of

in unbearable coolness

next to a radio

dusted in flour

the one whose

quick hands in the bread dough

ought to be

up at 4

in their own


and then

I got it –

them tipping slag

is me folding

an After Eights wrapper

into 16 pieces

until the folds tear

from the tension

of it

and them pouring out


useful and magical

is this:


next to me

holding the rail

in the dark


Templeborough melting shop

(c) TM 3rd jan 2013

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