The Razor

Coming in from the South, blown in
on a cone of air and a hangover,

my heart’s salmon-leap at the sight of it,
all city glitter, all liquid supple thing.

Head, shear-diagonal; body, lipstick-
columnar, tongued turbines sift air

just like abacus beads create streaming
numbers and my thoughts shift to beauty,

to pure abstraction. Hungerford Bridge:
barred light, straps of shade, slab me in.

Quick, fix it, reach back to it, hold the turbines –
which flip, line up coin-rim-flat, deliver

a triple, perfect-oval sky; and the heart-gasp of it,
shock-through of it, pierces, gifts me joy.