You were climbing, when I first saw you,

down into the floor of a Fitzroy pub.

Whose grave was it, again? Your father’s?

Our Father’s? Your own? No, your shadow’s.

It was mine too. You could disappear
easily into any crowd of real or typical men,

I thought then. Over ten years on and you’re still

climbing further in, trying to live

up to the poem’s title, Risen. What are we

trying to find? Or escape? Clue – if tradesmen
really should tease us both every day,

it’s not about the obvious thoughtless reflex,

but desire, what leans out of us towards others,

suffering in their various bodies under

the wheel of the world. Forget tradesmen, I mean 
anyone. Sure – I know my anyone is not yours,

but perhaps what links my hump to your square jaw

is something about women or men or

poetry’s clichés on feeling. Abstractions.

But I’m assuming when I should ask …
Back then, as you descended, I lost sight of you

behind the crowd of heads. At the time

I thought it was unfortunate – now,

it seems like a scene you keep re-enacting

in order to escape it.  Like climbing 
onto a stage to become invisible. What we want here

will happen by accident if we try. Because actually

I don’t know you that well, but I do

sniff flowers in Coburg. Who wouldn’t?

By the way, tell me what you mean by “team”.