Sport 13 Spring 1994
Our summer ends, breaks down mechanically
with minor floods and scrapes in ill-lit carparks.
Brake-lights smear the air.
My blood a soup of cholesterol and tars,
I walk to where the unfamiliar
works like a narcotic on my nerves.
Blitzed roses. Loam. A moistening dusk.
The gelid wobble of a fountain’s jet
troubles the lights infirmity.
The sea and sky are one again in seeming
original, originally mythic,
the same dim wetnesses as Adam loved
before he understood the need for sunlight.