Transpennine

‘…only the ocean makes the night’s leather clothes open up’
- Wang Xiaoni

Back in the town where I grew up,
daybreak undresses the dark canal.

Its banks have papery skin. Its bones
are reeds, a trolley with the wheels removed.

A heron makes a mystery of the scrap yard,
soundless, blue then gone.

On the bridge at dawn, a man walks
with a plastic bag of clothes held at his chest.

We’ll meet, sooner or later. One of us
will reach the other side.



Wake

‘There must be someone who stays awake.
There must be someone who understands.’
- Wang Xiaoni

At 3am, I write these letters
I won’t send to you,
address them to a shed
that leans like bad calligraphy
inside your garden, somewhere
on the trampled-down east coast.

Awake, you’re not at sea
but not on land. I guess you,
sitting up, surrounded
by your borrowed things -
a bookshelf made of bricks,
an ashtray shaped into an open hand -

You’re listening to the fuck it,
fuck it heartbeat of the clock
and smoking all the cigarettes
you’ve given up.
Scanning the yard, you’re hoping
for an animal, a cat,

a lost dog or lame fox,
something to see you, the way I do
from this distance: martyred
by the lamp, the night collecting
on the wall, your lips still
moving as you read.