Baby screams twist through the block of flats,
then shattering sounds, domestic rows,
TVs saying: lines are open now.
The grey roads swill with rain,
and advertising hoardings turn,
then turn again,
as pizza heats through in my oven.

Something wild calls in me, but no thing calls back.
Can’t stop these stupid, manic fantasies
of deep and pathless forests —
dells awash with bluebells, needles,
rabbit-flesh and pear-flesh;
bats cover the face of the moon
like carnival masks…

But I am spoiled.
What would I have me do?
Trill to birds like some Disney Snow White?
Forage like some broadsheet tourist?
Imagine the cold — no fridges, no taps.
I’d bore myself, kill myself; can’t even strike a match.
I’d end in constellations of maggots.

But still, where is our succour?
The park I must avoid after dark is not enough,
the basil pot in its wrapper is not enough,
the organic cheese is not enough,
the raggedy fox is not enough,
the limping pigeon is not enough,
the sunflowers in Sainsburys are not enough.