The great dental scurf of your molars trawls lichen and krill and moss. I am used to the dough smell, the tired yeast, the fragrant fart of seaweed fermenting, the Diaspora of scales flitting by my feet, trying the edges in tired waves, again and again and again. They make sounds like breath, And stir a memory of leaves.
I used to climb your teeth, Go rock pooling in their Rotten crevices, Tread carefully about the yellowing edges, Slip on green dredges of plaque. I have no time for that now.
Ha-noi Your name is for Junk ships and the plunk Of sinking pots Into water To out-pour The overflow.
In the monsoon cabbage leaves drift like petticoat flotsam against your knees. Rotten fish flow through the streets. The power cut Leaves roads Black and wet The drains Full of paper And pulp. We eat soft glass noodles Limp by the light of A halogen lamp, Haunted by the Call of the siren And the rasp Of the water-logged Engine Gargling through the water.
Ha-noi, Soft sound plugged, Garbled, Pitched high, Like the staccato rickets Of geese Honking At the moon Just as sensible And slow moving As Oriental porn.
An alphabet of fence posts, Tallies, Scores. An alphabet of Pick up sticks, Daft.
Ha-noi, Your name is for Whale guts, Goat’s blood And rice wine, The chew of the White intestinal Noodle, The hum of The cockroach Numbed by diazepam, Under feeble bulbs As dark as the Moon glow. Ha-noi.
I sit inside you At the heart of your lake At the arch of your neck In the dome of your throat Basilica cupped And ribbed in the High reach of your diaphragm That touches with gargantuan love The Delphic breach of your pelvis.
And I do not know what to do.
Ha-noi, I am prey to the curious lunar tug of your sleep patterns, have forgotten day and night. know only tides spelt out by the starry phosphoresce of shrimp and sea horses. And the tuba buzz of your snore.
In your sleep, Your are one big wheezing harmonica The great bulge of your B-flat stomach Burps Yiddish protuberances, Vov, Kof, Yud, Daled, Giml. A phlegm ridden alphabet Of whale parps. And I dream of organ grinders, Hot water bottles, Tough rubber And the London Underground. Captain Mannering’s marching band Red faced, ready for a nap.
Ha-noi I miss the earth, I cannot remember a time before motion.