The Bottle Collector
The puzzled, expecting look
of a ferret; down the bin
a treasure of headstruck bees
and sticky paper. Each bottle,
the promise of a few coins,
of late gulleted and clear.
Pictures of jovial rum islands
and sorts of laughing deer.
Torn into sadness, he roams
motorway toilets and the black
seas of carparks, angular, zebrine.
He looks and looks and looks
taking time like a casual lover
in for the taking, the pull.
This is heaven.
Hands down into the rest.
The weight of long, cold glass.
More of a miracle.
More of a miracle.
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