Staring out of long parks and forty four
windows opposite where only the
bravest show their heads. I’m asking
how magic projections can answer
localised weather systems, saying
nothing so obvious as I’d like.
Today is softened, and in a roundabout kind
of way the starlings are demonstrating
illusionary deceit/ where to go this morning in a street
and search for a face called ‘Rose’, to fix
these physical incarnations to
kindly lids, they never peered across
our border/ I’d like to share that with you.
This is no longer an empty hemisphere
but a rich trip of silence that we drive out of
in giggling secret and map somehow blind along
to the song along to the song
which can’t really matter, this flattery tastes
light and doesn’t carry seismic impact.
I can’t hold this forever, but
do my best, and write ‘plinky plonky
music’, not so well. We can both hear an owl but
I had it first/ and the evening blankets me quicker, worse
off to be confined in weak plaster again but all that
is innocuous, and we play Houdini, ineluctably. It is
sublime at the distance I stare longingly back.
Crammed into one small space the word is purple and
other common ground/ stood on a mud bank riveted to sounds
that make so much sense and wonderfully barrel on.
Remember how fine it was to watch a crocus trouble soil?
Fixed side by side in half blankets you worry over
grinding teeth who give the game away, and we
sleep in snatches.
It’s no wonder you came panicking down and
how to be grateful? I would have taken your hand or let you fall
into this open neck. Always asking in muted miles
if we can’t elope at this late stage?