from Blackwater Quartet, selection 32

Summoner

Consider my words, I, a scribe of Memphis
instructed by Isis in her temple underground
in particular my skill at riding crocodiles, a feat 
discounted later by the Greeks

near Half Moon Passage three storeys up
in the window against peeling solar film
the sign’s red
letters this is me, breathing

below, the buses passing Blackwall Tunnel
Isle of Dogs and the man’s greasy neck tattoo
his shirt collar edged
with scorpions

Battersea Park the woman
intent through poppy foliage finds the lost sphere
shaped yellow fast her black
dog leaping

in the station the train mournful whining
in the next seat
the girl the full mouth
her bare toes flexing in her sleep

I, cleansed of imperfections make
this offering under streetlight, instructing
this inevitability
far from my detractors