As I sup my pint outside
In the Indian summer
Late afternoon early evening
Sun sluicing stone terraced houses
So different to the dirty bricks
Of home, a jet groan
Draws up my eyes:
A polished gravity’s for wimps
Super jumbo from distant somewheres.
I feel I’m made of helium,
Up there in cloudless air
With boomeranging swifts,
The black-mood poison
I’ve been shotgun married to for years
Now drawn, the plane the anti-registrar,
Tearing up certificates, melting rings.
Nisi not yet absolute, but
I can see it now,
The valley steep, but sunlit.


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