You 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
...