Anthony and Cleopatra hey, he said, hey, let's stay in bed together. outside somewhere, the dust is settling. people selling carpets from car boot- backs and wine off from dusty back shelves. somewhere there's a horse turned to ribs by some cross- roads. somewhere blood flowing. it's 5pm here but there is light somewhere else, coming over the horizon like legs rising out of a bath. she looked up from where she was off at the window, hair on her shoulders black waterfalls falling on rocks, and she smiled and said yes, you want to stay in bed every day when I visit but me, I have things to do, Ant. I have friends and work to go to. I like going outside when the sun is up. like coffee on patios and music in jazz bars and sometimes outside them I talk to people I don't know. that's how we met, remember? and that's why you like me. because sometimes I go away. he rolled on the sheets, stiffened his resolve and something else, yes, that thing too. yes he said and rolled the duvet over, exposing the mattress to her side. yes that is part of the reason. Straight down. the best ones take feeling and get their hands in at the start – pulling it straight down and over the page like a windowblind hiding distraction or a coffin nail pushing some meaning to place. the best ones are rivers, and like that take courses going straight and invariably downward. only looking to the shallow eye like they meander. experiments in form are experiments, not decisions – exercises in not knowing which way words want to go, written by some people who do not understand where stability comes from or where their feet would go if they ever decided to stand up, pick a course, and plant themselves.