8pm
Quick-slip legs , Birange, soliped
peddling furiously
like underpainting to surface
flashing fog,
drugs in pocket, change
if you need it.
An acid cap, test tube no less
for the price of a can
of coke.
10pm
Crouches of thickets sit
friable resin,
grass-stalks drifting the foot-crunched park.
1am
Dimmer shadows liquefy
galaxies of the pond,
brattle, chattering bonfires, clips
murmuring in brilliant unevenness.
3am
Arbour-big in a tiny universe he appears
gecko-still. Postponing dawn
hanging above the dene.
Mournful eyes;
scarab-dropped
from the catkins of moon,
stares into velvet
where freckles in black-welkin space
are new-mown mordant air.
Dawn
When five years pass, or ten
plankton-scent will rise,
a crackle will sideswipe
bushes in artificial light
and all this will
in its own aqueous way
happen again:
a reared-up wolf head of steam
snorting dragon streams,
purple-lined clouds.
