From the talisman journal: House of Lords

When The First Leaves Fell

andalouse red, the red

of red-brick mansion flats

and London was silent as it is in August

waiting for the Wolf’s moon,

you found a beetle quite lifeless

on the asphalt and gave him

a modest burial of veined

copper beech leaves, the way

a chameleon is covered with twigs

to avert misfortune.

We went to a matinee, the applause

unnerving in the rain as the

sound of rutting deer. I remember

the smell of figs under my raincoat

and your knitted jumper, air force blue,

a vixen barking in distant streets,

the low throb of a motorbike engine.

Afterwards we walked in the space

between sirens and spoke of death

and memories. Flint, soil, enamel;

blood blown along the dividing line

at Machakos junction. A clock struck,

flocks of ducks made V

formations on the hushed river.

Your kiss left a blackberry

bruise speckled on my lip like an

empurpled birthmark.

In time might I retrace those steps,

the spool of autumn leaves shed there

like found truths along Ariadne’s thread.

May I recall the sky, pale as thaw, wind

blowing the taste of sorghum meal into

my mouth, the swallows returning at last

to Africa, idolatry, London rain.