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This is just to say,   that the inked glasses that you wear look like the sound of shop front shutters at five, clattering on rollers and hiding merchandise,   and your incisors, exposed by your smile, look like the feeling of top cupboard china in my grip,   while in light snow, your hair, pulled and woven may look like the taste of the crumb of a Tunnock’s snowball on my tongue   and the skin on your face, hugging your mouth and tucked under your glasses that is moulded and folded by your lips   stirs in my mind like the balmy coffeed breath of an office worker, passing me at nine