Sport 10: Autumn 1993
Autumn is dusk, brings dusk,
Dusk's grave adjustment of tones.
I have bathed, my fingers smell of money.
Greyness, stillness, chill—
Each is rich in itself.
The sea has fingers like these smallnesses,
These notes; those who are cold
It touches with odours.
Behind you hung a vast fund of cloud.
There dwindles on my eye
Your eye, the charm of clavicles.
You were as real as meat, as thunder.