you lift a hand to sweep away

the cobwebs    a rubber spider

is about to infiltrate your best

eye    so entertain it with sweet

valentines    the people in the park

may still be there even if you

dare not think of them or understand

their costume jewelry
the medieval greyhound flares across

your passage like a literal confirmation

can you read the subtext of that

syringe dangling at the periphery

of the paper rose
do you like the digitally enhanced

duck pond of the sesquicentenary

parklands    tick all the boxes as

your lapdog poos in paradise clearly

please
is this where the national lector

slept with her tattered script,

a dream of playing tennis on

a painted lawn with hamlet;

how the rows of trams burned

brighter than ilium or carthage

i saw the exhibition – some inferno

and then i hit the sack