Devonshire, 1997

Devonshire, 1997

Something is burning and it smells good,
like breakfast in south Kensington, or
touring the morning Fowey,
windy windy and your face is freezing.

Our van has the broke-down blues,
we are so severely cramped we are
rotating but undulating but ultimately,
ewe are trapped.

We have caused a traffic jam that you
cannot comprehend and skittles is out
of the question, as is leaving this beach
this black pool sands with our dignity.

I am only thirteen but I smell the severity,
mixed in with whatever the locals are
boiling and it’s probably those cows that
we saw on the road on our way out of town.

Our house is burning downs slowly from
all the excitement and our comforter has
exploded the washing machine beneath the
sink and I am swimming to the front door.

In the courtyard the sunlight is mortar for the
gravel and across the street the phone booth,
the only phone in town, is not ringing and
no one is really surprised, least of all me.

I’m going out back behind the neighbors
construction site of a homestead to wade
ankle deep and awkward in their creek and
collect newts and toads with both hands.

Two weeks ago I was in the Adirondack
mountains canoeing and who knows what
else but now I am in the south of England
loafing in a creek and it’s basically the same.