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It gathers distance, as he turns
the corners of suburban modernity on
one wheel — a romance with the topos
of Europe in hot pursuit — and he goes
‘The thing is filling you in on couleur
locale, outpouring the ephebe’s
phonemes, o, how on earth to cope
with ambulant memories of a syntax
That had taken to arranging glad
tidings for itself & the haste
with which the voice would resist
it a tantalising veil that is flying
Off its handles’. The view steadies
him, him instead. Whoa! The rise
out of the occasion is not true
to him, nor would fen turn him
Breathless, exactly. Just by itself,
him cycling away. As a spare
part, I go with witty banjos
to the pool, to let the stirring
Detail of that azure lucidity
introduce itself as ‘dinkum’
in the sherry hours of Jesus
when the gathering is quite
Complicately parched & libation
a pale gloss on it what is, and more,
to denote what one who longed
for it had done, give umbrage.
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