The back of the shelf.

All night conversation
The thrill of the bus journey
Drinking till you speak something of the truth
The white noise inside
Vomitting words to 200 beats per minute
Stumbling for a piss
Eyes stinging, borrowed fag unlit.
Loose change and sweat.
Waxen face, painted like a death mask.
You found nowhere.
Drunken embraces.
Slurred words as we cling to each other.
Spinning and breathing great gulps of cold smoky air
by the bus station.

Melting

Winters war is almost run.
Spring lies coiled,
taut and waiting
to burst for the light.
Throwing tendrils,
clinging to tiny handholds,
its grip thawing, digging, clawing,
colonising.
Pushing its way through hard ground
Splitting tarmac, forcing it up and out.
Smothering winters work.
Woodcut crisp lines made filthy with green.