In a dress, in a dream
your guide points out carvings, a well to kick.
Sissy mountains slope to ground.
His fans bay in the church of Perpetual Succour.
Plane to the apron,
a rook abed, to swindle and jack.
Walk into sky when the street ends, to turbid night.
Traffic dinks around a tower.
She rotates in her garden.
The spying dog returns, flummoxed.
What a relief, her promenade or whatnot
but still the shouting,
and languor overtakes both like a victim,
his velvety daub in the ashtray,
the sewn mouths in the islands.
Parliament resumes, on a corpse.
Each path, addled and peremptory, calls
in bossed waves.
4 May 2016