When

Cracks
            in a cobble shaded by my sole.
            Turrets glimpsed from rocking taxi.
            My case thunking 
                        gapped floorboards and you flick
                        on a television—no, not that.
            Speaking encouraging bits to a stranger’s pair of black cats.
            Toting bags of fruit and wine along a damp un-
            familiar street as you sleep—that and solving
                        someone else’s keys in several Scottish locks and later,
                         from behind, the drizzle on your trenchcoat shines.
            We adopted the same posture watching the vicious play, arms
            crossed—that and handing my ticket
            to the man with the tugged face Berwick-
                        Upon-Tweed—no, not that—my index finger
                        on iced window tracing misting North Sea—no,
                        not that—telling the food and drinks trolley boy no thanks
                        with a smile that is American
                        and overrated—that and kissing
            my old friend’s cheek, my
                        bare foot on a musical stair,
                        pushing the door open with my knuckles, lying
                        beside you one last time in London—no, not that—the foxes, 
British foxes
                        on a terrible 3am tear—shrill, cruel, vio-
lent. Leaves shuddered their entire lives,
bracken snapped--all traps sprung. That
is when I feel it.
That is when.