And then there was the parson with the unsightly proboscis,
nuzzling into the armpit of bomber jackets for a good old honk -
steepling his fingers on the bus before leaning forward piously
and inhaling the scent of a blond scalp that smelt of rusks
and old light.
He collected musks on silk handkerchiefs,
distracting marks with an illustrated tract on the sin of
'grief busking' - their momentary confusion an unlocked skylight
through which he would rappel, skimasked, beautiful,
gall tangy as aftershave, singing, singing.