Kircaldy

The sky is like a one armed
bandit as the thunder snaps
leaving three shades of red,
rains arrive, streets empty.
I am led to tender memories,
using Scotland as a walking stick,
it's head carved with attentive
eyes. I walk the Kircaldy streets
of my youth as I sleep, the night
seems impressed-ready to be tattooed
as it unfolds it's arms, street signs
don't have names, windows of empty
houses cry because owners have passed
away. This town near the sea is like a
spoon hovering perpetually over a jar
of honey,a seagull hovers, spying on a
passenger eating beneath the vague crescent 
of the moon, the gull's friends seem to
be indifferent. A perceptive tourist will
eye Kircaldy. I am the train stations guest,
the bench a makeshift bed, my mouth is a
sleeping bag for words I have yet to
articulate. The seemingly disparate moons
are connected to form a ring of ecstasy, 
that will rise as i internalize the people
and streets, eventually the sovereign will 
be complete. Watching trains and then the
sea, I imagine the sea refusing a watch from
time-with a mermaid fishing in the sky trying
to hook lightning.