Deptford

Nightlife spits and makes me old
in it. That bridge is just stoic, not looked after,
my kitchen molding into an hour I chose
to ignore. That hill was so cold 
on the trek home, our backs to everything north 
of us, the river way ahead, the air between treacling
into the sound of you building a film set
with your hands, tatty and strong
in mime, time flashes
at me and you weren’t even a full night; shallow
like a moment with a teaspoon