Translation feels like unwrapping someone else’s present
and I’m all thumbs, but finger-fucking you
came to me so easily last night. Half a Heineken
and I start to soften around my edges. Half an early evening
and the clouds ripple, raised like braille. Foghorns
as the cruise ships cleave themselves to the harbour,
crowds of tourists spilling into the faux-colonial streets
through which I walk and wander, my head heavy.
Will I ever be good again? Their marvellous mouths say nothing,
nothing, but they stick in my throat all day. Yesterday
you told me your body is strange; but no, it’s like a song,
one I hear on the radio, one I know I already know.