Ftrain, by Paul Ford

of a morning woven over stone
I bump camera then smock.
We share a mist
wherein I must refuse, no
dreamy photographs desired: my-
self and nothing. Stavros, he
of ghosty smock, is ticked at me.
                It rises as a litany
                to an imagined sun.
I jab along the slippery rocks
for cooler idioms,
finally to divine
                lovers (Byron’s one)
who have scratched their hearts to ruins.
Spooners weave through our academies
                shunning all the moves to set

their dreaming steps to music
more appropriate.

                Or so I later feel with ouzo
at the shivering cafe
before sun fairly rockets through
              and temple can assert in flame,
                informing wave on wave of rain
the wisdom of arrangment past
                this opalescent glass.