MARC FORSTER STILL LIGHT AT 9PM He ran to catch the last train’s shame: Stuck fast in blackcurrant-blue blancmange, Stained with donut jam: the sun’s sweet Stasis. In its end is its beginning. Trapped then, in contemplation of a tea, Where two thumbs can break a star’s will And spill its boiled gases for children to lick From a train guard’s hand: June’s Eucharist. A seat found without reservation to cool it. Buttock after buttock built up human warmth Till Christ sells tickets to his execution Promised despite an undarkening sky. Look, he’s a home to go to, though no lover. Shook out like a dust-sheet newspapers catch The fall of shed skin (that’s all we do), Then wrap a cod and chips: that’s useful too. Back to TUT Samples Back to The Ugly Tree The Library