But still there are days

like today when the sky is all day boozy
and ends as it began in the too-blue grin of night in a fifties western

as the rump of summer cheats from autumn
afternoons baked hard and slow

and on busy streets the tiny bones of feet
chatter as they creak and bounce along

and we smoke in the park only to pass kisses back and forth
hung like unspoken words on the tip of the roach

and we stumble through fizzing streets
where everyone is freshly fleshy and real about their sharp

bright faces before it is dark                   again
and everything familiar and singular again

and briefly it is not too much
briefly not much too much

and the space between us feels contingent
unimportant      thin and pressed between our faces and tomorrow

and history is neither now                    nor England
though it feels not so very far away


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