How often have I carried our family word For the hot water bottle To a strange bed As my father would juggle a red-hot half-brick In an old sock To his childhood settle. I have taken it into so many lovely heads or laid it between us like a sword.

An hotel room in New York City with a girl who spoke hardly any English my hand on her breast like the smouldering one-off spoor of the yeti or some other shy beast that has yet to enter the language.