hiking up London Road
i am a
rapturous emergency,
i am shouting
at trees
& bus stops
where old men in caps
hang
like rope
over signs
marked for Ditchling Beacon.
and i step
in a puddle of
daylight,
passersby streaking
like Olympic medallists
up the grey lawns.
i am sleepwalking
in the pavement,
or
skating on shiny flat heels
past the fruit
and veg.
my head is
communion -
the last Sunday in
December.
i'm a bat
hidden in its own
straggly wings,
a destiny
already
deflowered, a
nerve
blooming in
every direction,
a poppy
driven to
insanity
and suicide
by the smell of opium,
and withering--car horns,

---- fucking windshields