Matches

Paris match
Met screams
Around the pitch
Papa don’t preach
Give me the magazine please
It’s easier reading than
Hearing the helicopter’s eating
Roasted gourd-seed in the air
I am not in Belfast any more
The wave bites Athens
A match for a match
I coach myself
Not to demand too much
While lighter hands
Clap each other
Only A
The lonely letter a
Is going to bloom
As ache
Soon
The noisy hands
Land on my knees now