Mary Hastilow
In the off-licence
In the off-licence a man with a bag full of bottles
is drunk, can’t find the door handle by himself,
but doesn’t he know the lurches of tenderness
as well as any of us?
His dialogue is marshy, but who’s to say
his blurred words are not closer to the edge
of the intention to speak out?
His limbs are of the same weak bones,
they cling to earth by the same force
and are vertical for roughly equal lengths of time.
His spirit is affectionate, loose and watery
passions fall easily
from a spilled man who needs me
to open the door for him.
Page(s) 169
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