Something in the way she moves

I've still the ring you gave me one day in Leicester Square
twisting on my finger, an anxious rabbits-foot charm to
ward off the full-forward doubts pressing out my brow
There is this place, where you and I and everyone we've lost lived once,
a kind of greyed-out sleeting paradise where I played in snow
and got shit-faced terror drunk and slid baggies of
high white knights under tables in Music Theatre bars, filed with starlets and
queens and curious boys with lyrical memories and then there are
quiet Southern sunsets and Oliver and sadness and spag-bol hearths to take care of me
I'm sorry it's been so long between poems, I've been -
pre-occupied with rebuilding a kind of triumph here as if to fill in for those
slate-grey early days that seemed to me more the best of this little self than any other
and I miss them, and I miss you friend but I've some oh so adventurous delights here now, broad-patterned and bright, they're the new victory, she lying here now, her hand gently on my stomach (where no one gets to touch) and as she breathes so do I, oh so do I and so I stay

if i could press the crêpe sweet sweep where your eyes meet your tongue i would

Can you say you miss a place like a lover?

Then if then I can say the Thames wends its way through my waking, 

and even the thought of a Heath roll ramble brings high hearts to my beating soul, 

some drunk Camden shit-camera red-stripe abandon fills 

the clavicle I left on Finchley rd when I scrambled so far north 

I forgot my poppy-seed inebriate scares and left 

that hated Dollis Hill-scape, all mold walls and 10quid whiskey but 

I found - tucked in Hampstead woodlands, between rabbit forts and acid

Break up trips - some part of that ancient deep and beating place that was then if for me

A scene engineered to let you slip between it

Winging along a rush-walled city, sliding and sloughing and seeking

My own related anatomy

I'm not there when it happens,
I pass by later to see red
and brick and rubble
much later actually
there's already a shrine of sorts
a bus-shelter shape, not even
half-filled
with tacs, the odd photos, a shoe -
these people three, I don't recognise them
it was the thing not the people
that fell, but when it fell and
as it fell more than bodies got
crushed

In which Carson unties my tongue...

“I'm not explaining this right. What happened was this. There were these beautiful feelings and loose little pleasures inside me. And this woman was something like an assembly line for my soul. I run these little pieces of myself through her and I come out complete. Now do you follow me?”
~ Carson McCullers - 'A Tree, a Rock, a Cloud'