Returned SenderIf I found you in Berlin,
where they kiss main roads
and make love in post-Soviet swirl
of mid-dusk firework shows,
you fall close as ever,
green-growing as arks at dusk
and, I’d hope, in my tired arms.
If I found you in Paris,
where they smolder-smoke with café pastry
and philosophize on napkin clothes,
on rickety tables with pretensions’ past ghosts,
you’d outshine the swimming starlets,
your memoirs of King’s college,
my holding on for a footnote.
If I found you in Madrid,
where you spoke of sunshine
in Gaelic accent, watery resonance,
you wouldn’t be a synthetic muse,
a hang-lamp for teenage passions,
but some brighter star to chase,
in Albion poets’ style grand.
If I found you in London, though,
that was all: just the meeting.