Seated woman 

Undermoon on the first or second day, fishstocking sky, eyed bluet or wood blewit & parade paridae; 

Bacteria veining phthalo indignant to cold bolts, bouts bottled up a litmus funk, but as before cyanide. 

Having hue like clear sky sitting in the garden with winter bright upon her lap moulded living dappled, 

Bear, barely trees, conservative-john/ bleu-jaune/ bleujenn/ blodon/ bloom & below jeans ankle short, 

Give various small butterflies of the lycaenidae/ she wolf not laconic, & perhaps a whiff shoals passed: 

Gums sigh of dahlia, ultramarined like a rorqual & devils music & mountained on dragonfly & damson. 

On having a passport stolen

(and afterwards either 20:34 or 21:34 depending on how you count

I hold conversation over some soup with one of a pair 

of middle-aged women one German and one English

Helena, perhaps, whose face I can see sharply

and the other I forget

travelling to London for the purpose of sorting out 

one recently deceased relative’s affairs and flat

on the south bank and near to London Bridge)

sometimes I wake up in the morning at 06:52

with a cold shiver of my pencil-case hewn from

old cushion fabric purple with orange thread,

handmade and embroidered ‘PS’ with a

FRISTER+ROSSMANN electric by myself

and my dad and his mother when I was eight 

or nine or so,

and the pencils in each of their compartments

in the likeness of the spanners and wrenches

in my late grandfather’s pockets and toolbag

in colour-order from ultra-violet

through infra-red, and an engraved and burnt-image

and negative on the retina

of a pencil-case in a bag on a train 

ICE 12, carriage 21, Köln to Bruxelles

and the rack is empty and ragged with breath 

and so is the other, down the carriage.

And where something so certain once was,