Muhammed texts me on Scruff from Alexandria. / I mention Cavafy and he asks me when I’ll visit. / I think of Egypt, Shakespeare. Never, I reply, / It’s too far. Then I clock he means the one / in West Dunbartonshire and blush…

‘…grace to you/and peace from God our Father. Now look here://Adam could have said ‘no thanks’ or ‘apples/disagree with me’. He didn’t. He had a bite/as well...’

‘Once, the great statues lined the silk road./Their names were ‘goddess’, ‘lion’, ‘funerary/weeping girl’, ‘merchant with beard like an abacus’…’

‘… I read the sadness of pure/loss as it floods his face —/although I cannot see it./The still terror and yet/the acceptance of that/terror in the silent morning/bed before light and/movement…’