In some pocket of travelling
clothes, a rolled up
fiver paves the way
for homeward bound
I will remember the
way my feet burnt
on the steps down to
the sea and how you
fit snug in the placid
corners of the pool
the industrial planes
of France somehow took me
and my sack of memories
to Nevada, where poplars
stroke the edges of salt
water cooling tanks
and pasteurised milk
seeps from VATS into ploughed
fields where you sowed
my hair follicles into dolls
of niacin plasticine
but in the end, the lines
which ran from head to
tail were always too short,
as if you’d let your strands
fall from that bald patch
on purpose. The fields
never forgave that loss,
in their plush corkscrews of grass,
they’d remembered your form.