January 2015

Y yo me moriré porque no me basto.
Pero tú vives, Machu Picchu,
Piedra que se está en su alto.



They laid this stone trap
for him, enticing him with candles,
as though he would come like some huge moth
out of the darkness to beat there.
Ah, he had burned himself
before in the human flame
and escaped, leaving the reason
torn. He will not come any more (more…)

I understand the boredom of the clerks
fatigue shifting like dunes within their eyes
a frightful nausea gumming up the works
that once was thought aggression in disguise. (more…)

Colour of lemons, mango, peach,
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, their balconies
Fine as hand –
Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower pensketch. (more…)

A region where the air
still smells
of burnt sacrifices. (more…)

I lean on a wall
still hot
from the long fire, (more…)

Dear Joe, I’d like to walk with you
From Clapton Pond to Stamford Hill
And on,
Through Manor House to Finsbury Park,
And back,
On the dead 653 trolleybus,
To Clapton Pond,
And walk across the shadows on to Hackney Downs,
And stop by the old bandstand,
You tall in moonlight,
And the quick shadow in which it persists.

You’re gone. I’m at your side,
Walking with you from Clapton Pond to Finsbury Park,
And on, and on.

1977, Teacher of English

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