in memory of g. a. w.
All we have are the notes in our phones
and a lemon before it rots against
the ceramic fruit-bowl, blue memento
mori, the crazing writing age in webs.
Not the dusty kind, stuck to cilia
and the dark corners of a buy-to-let;
I mean the alive webs, silky and wet
in the garden, late spring, before the cough.
To hold a crocus and feel the city
emerge from its stamen; I knew you would.
A hospital bed now a riverbed,
a lemon holds its sun close to its skin;
remember to rouse me from my dreaming
before morning, so I can send this text.