This poem is taken from PN Review 178, Volume 34 Number 2, November - December 2007.
Four PoemsYou Were a Bird
You were a bird before we met. I know that
because over your skew front teeth
your mouth makes a pointy beak.
We met first in Dickens' London,
in an evening of frosted windows
and hot steaming steak.
That night we were drinking,
and the chimneys were smoking,
and my lips were growing big
as bread baked in the oven.
I met London in your face,
and I smelt wine on your breath
and the shape of your mouth
left me feeling slightly lyrical.
We drank a lot that night
...
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