The lone stag’s crossing a field.
He’s done with rutting.
Outside Snape Maltings
he listens to Alexander Gadjiev.
He’s got Chopin in his head.
He misses the girls.
He’s missing an antler.
The sky is blood-red.
The sonata was perfect.
He’s always had a thing
about New York.
He slips into the water
at Bawdsey.
His wounds are cauterised.
He’s swimming
to Old Felixstowe.
He curls up in the bowels
of the ship
like Rimbaud.
He’s not sure how things will go.
The stowaway stag.
He’s going to start again.
He’d like some music.
He’d like to play the cello.
He’d really like a cigar.
