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The only tide I know

the only tidal pattern I can talk about for sure

is the tidal pattern of traffic in the rush hour

the familiar surge backwards and forwards

never quite exactly the same or at exactly the same time

foam spitting out its bubbles

the little eyes of cars in the dark could be fish

bobbing along for air

the pent up pressure unbuttoned

in a far off car crash the dark matter everybody thinks they can see

or the pent up pressure, a ladies blouse unbuttoned at the neck

in the steamy bus

for air

the tidal force of the moon is drawing you to town for work and then back home

for tea

or the arms of a lover

wispy oven smell rinsed out by the kitchen fan

it’ll never be quite what you expect

ten hot dogs matched with a packet of eight rolls

it’ll never be quite right

you know

opening the bank statement standing at the top of the beach above high water

where the stones are sharp underneath your feet

which makes you totter precariously from one foot to the other

in normal times

and the credit crunch is a huge ship wreck bladdered across the beach

bursting through your stomach and heart and home

all the fine goods from the bowels of the ship

are carried off by the usual suspects to be re-sold again to each other

the golden boy beachcombers in Armani suits,

or whatever the label is this week

to loop back round on a sickening journey

The circle will square in sidereal time

when stars blink the truth across the new winter sky

As my feet become godlike and massive

taking root in the earth