My narratives are all felt: soft and matted beauties
adrift in snowfalls that surprise us this late in the year.
No confession, every word is built to last, made to
confuse the reader. Especially when they've had a few,
more so if you're paying. If the air strike's really coming
then we should drink to the end of our days. You'll nowt
see worse than disgraced poets intent upon their drafts.
The sonic boom shook our glasses, the dazzle
blew my mind and knocked the pictures all askew.
All I remember is the sound of money in the till
and the landlord calling last orders as the bombs
began to fall. Soon, coffins sang and we knew what
we were missing: overgrown umbrellas and passable
roads, the simmer of warm nostalgia on the stove.