Arrival

All of London drips off my bike helmet.
The city is one volume of rain, and it sparkles
blitzingly under each streetlight.
It is 5.30am.
In your bed, in another city,
Your steady breathing is real
And I am cycling through your surreal dream.
The huge sycamoure leaves clop down
Like great nappies or artists's rags
Then reform in the streets, into hand-shapes
That run low, palming the air that is
Just above the tarmak
Losely, just like you might still hover
in the film of atoms
Just above my neck.