I am not blood-steamed
by spine loosening grunts
across bare white backs
laid out below Istanbul
on arse-warmed marble
Instead
I am pinned and pressed
sweated
as if sleeping badly
but up
awake on a chassis-rattled bus
sat with other stained weights
drawing my dank suspires
Old condensation cools
on glass
almost rolled tears
on soused windows
There’s no near side view
Above a wettened aisle
fellow devotees look on
with a quiet resignation
We are gathered
together
in Our Driver’s
rear-view mirror
It is
again
my lost route
of timeless sways and whines
of an engine in county lanes
taking me
a cold damp traveller
I am compressed
and sat stop-blind
I am not
sauna-wrapped
this time
