On my desk, a set of labels br or a synopsis of leeks, br blanched by the sun br and trailing their roots br br like a watering can. br Beyond and below, br diminished by distance, br a taxi shivers at the lights: br br a shining moorhen br with an orange nodule br set over the beak, br taking a passenger br br under its wing. br I turn away, confront br the cuckold hatstand br at bay in the corner, br br and eavesdrop (bless you!) br on a hay-fever of brakes. br My Caran d'Ache are sharp br as the tips of an iris br br and the four-tier file br is spotted with rust: br a study of plaice br by a Japanese master, br br ochres exquisitely bled. br Instead of office work, br I fish for complements br and sport a pencil br br behind each ear, br a bit of a devil, br or trap the telephone br awkwardly under my chin br br like Richard Crookback, br crying, A horse! A horse! br My kingdom for a horse! br but only to myself, br br ironically: the tube br is semi-stiff with stallion whangs, br the chairman's Mercedes br has windscreen wipers br br like a bird's broken tongue, br and I am perfectly happy br to see your head, quick br round the door like a dryad, br br as I pretend to be Ovid br in exile, composing Tristia br and sad for the shining, br the missed, the muscular beach.