Maybe it's simply in the closed-off stitching,
that you lived like an open wound long
enough, been an Essex radical at 18
and still swirled about some social democrat
cocktail parties on occasion, leaving at
the point where champagne runs dry
and conversations drone about tax credits,
manufacturing incentives and the last seven
people you've slept beside.
Maybe it was all too much,
the whip-sawing like a Russian apparatchik
to oligarch in moonlight tangle of Moscow
on the peaks of Seven Sisters, that
shedding so simply of disguise coats as
yearly fashion, charged distance with
bolted lightning falling through the day's
hour slept away absent work.
Maybe, but, again,
it could just be you.