His blue shirt printed with charcoal swans
and his slow step, hands across his chest,
late because he refused the black fist
of the tube – the fear the train would stop on
an invisible platform and in the dark
smelling of electrics and cold he would linger,
wait and wait for the saving spark
and never again rise into the light.

We visited an exhibition of beds made of lead
In the centres little pools of liquid shivered
like fragile bodies leaking.
On hard pillows a spray of herbs wilted.
Against the grey monumental beds like stone
the blue of his shirt gleamed; his bright hair shone.