Poppy – bleachy, gap-toothed girl
	picking the stalls at South Bank,
	sunning her milky gams
	on the grass at Saint James Park.
We trundled out to Oxford
	in a carriage like an armpit.
	She told me she dreamed
	of cliff sides on Highway One.
Me, I dreamed about her—
	what it must be like
	to lace fingers in a fuck,
	to have a fight, to get so close
We stop seeing each other completely.
	But with each train lurch
	I felt my shackles keenly.
	My hand kept to its own knee.
Oh my, what tired bollocks, this
	love song mush, microwave 
	passion replaced, week later, 
	by some other horny stuff.
Forget Poppy—the point is this—
	There’ve been so many Poppies 
	they’ve come to settle thick
	like silt inside a bottle. 
These days, I have to hold my head just so
	lest an idle thought (Oxford) shakes
	it all up again, turns whole days
	into a mess of mud and water.