(after Boris Pasternak)
Fields fade to mauve in the heat

through the window villagers

stroll what is there to kiss

everything you see melts to soft wax
you dream not asleep dreaming

of being asleep there is someone

sleeping here two black suns

scorching their lashes through their eyelids
sun-beams catch iridescent insects

the glass of dragon-flies the second-

class carriage full of comings

and goings like a clock­maker’s kit 
you seem to be sleeping

in a vice of numbers

high above in amber the hands

of a clock dividing the air
noting fluctuations in heat

get up from your seat adjust

the clock lean out scatter the shadows

pierce the fug of the day
register yourself on its blue dome

your home your happiness sinking

down past the wreck of your dreams

happy people never help the clock
these two slept in its beams