I long for you
in winter, sing
of fall in spring;
head south, north;
by north; west
across continents,
the oceans of
india, arabian
seas. I was
a sailor, Trojan
slain; and from
the remains a Roman
soldier in the days
of Etruscan Kings.
Perhaps i
next time re-live
this my town
these last 20
years; submit
to some two
hundred bars and
a museum, turn
that into art,
again, i want
out of it, til
then i won’t
rest, haunting
the stairs, thinking
always there’s
something here
i’ve missed, face
pressed to the pane,
passed the slate
roofs, the rain-
laden evergreens.
As the sparrows
in the guttering
sing (?) i think of
nothing which is
all one to me.
11-12 September 2015