Sea water lops 
round a rock, 
a ferry noses out. 

People in coffee shops, 
some look at the ceiling 
while a friend 
tells once again, 
his marriage simply 
went. 

Stop at traffic lights, 
see a girl 
look you in the eye, 
she doesn't mean it. 

An old man 
swims in the flat 
slop 
of November. 
The cold squeezing him 
like an accordion. 

Young men 
in their shirts 
nod 
their boat-wide heads- 
too right, too right. 

Wind-surfer, 
frail on the tide, 
small as a kite, 
rises and falls 
on his own. 

Sunlight 
on the towers 
of the power station, 
making them gold, 
making them more.