This is just to say,

that the inked glasses that you wear look like

the sound of shop front shutters at five,

clattering on rollers and hiding merchandise,

and your incisors, exposed by your smile,

look like the feeling

of top cupboard china in my grip,

while in light snow, your hair, pulled and woven

may look like the taste of the crumb

of a Tunnock’s snowball on my tongue

and the skin on your face, hugging your mouth

and tucked under your glasses that is

moulded and folded by your lips

stirs in my mind like the balmy coffeed breath

of an office worker, passing me at nine.