North/South from the shape of every box by Helen Mort
you hated the bicycles,
all sharp spokes and silence
sluicing past with no lights on, leaving
puddle water up your trousers.
Not a hint of warning, you'd rant,
cursing a blur of silver.
On King's Parade, I almost
slipped right past you, blonde in the crowd.
We order pints, talk with an accent
I'd forgotten, you don't want to hear
about lectures and cloisters, about girls
you'll never meet with names like Coriander.
When you go to hug me
we skirt each other, move in close -
two cyclists with their heads down,
each waiting for the other to swerve.
