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But this is just a phase we pass through, the moonlit

by-way, heavenly Way to the sunfields of heaven;

fraught, as it is, with filmic visions, dream-corridors

that cut the mind: the idea/and the realization


of the idea. I am the way, means to an end

and the end wherever that is, and whatever

and ever. Shan’t always be the bare-foot creep

treading the wooden floorboards at midnight,


profaning the tombstones, pulpits, the aisles of churches;

heavenly acoustics! O, choir, god-inspired,

resonant to the bone, your inner being. I guess

I’m falling; celestial ceiling! I do believe it,


when eyes course the intricate masonry

of the cathedral; where, as I’ve said, the mind

reels. And out in the cool vernal light everything

splendours; which hurts – my inside’s out – to dry:


I have wandered into the garden, diffused among

fragrant flowers after rain, the first lucid

morning, when the light is raw. I recall

delirium. He held you tight against the wall;


his golden thighs, older now, an Odysseus,

battle-hard, after war. I’m touched by the soft curves

of these images, the shadowplay, storm-tossed;

spartan furniture, the cracked wall; a well-fucked,


sprung, sodden mattress. I grow old and more

crazed than I ever was; never have I been

more tormented, image-haunted; by the fair

skin and black or flaxen hair I would possess.


19-21 August 2015

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