Lyrics

How often have I carried our family word for the hot water bottle to a strange bed, as my father would juggle a red-hot half-brick in an old sock to his childhood settle. I have taken it into so many lovely heads or laid it between us like a sword. A hotel room in New York City with a girl who spoke hardly any English, my hand on her breast like the smouldering one-off spoor of the yeti or some other shy beast that has yet to enter the language.