From a double-decker bus,
in shop-lifted blue argyll-pattern socks,
I saw you for the penultimate time.
Now my teeth lengthen like the evening;
the scratches on an old watch
by the pane's explosion of sunset-
prismatic inside the cordon of time.
That night when you asked
if I always came so quickly,
I tried to think of little things
like that lump of compressed snow
in the shape of a haddock,
tiny runny fried egg sandwiches,
frozen red wine cubes.