If, as it seems to, the fairground goes dim
And duration comes alive in weak pulses,
So our hands are cold and their outline
Doubles in the distant late afternoon;
Do not think of heaven at all, of suns
Unshaken, bright rings in the civic bar.
The dancers lose their place at the bar
Slip on greasy cobbles, only a very dim
Sense of how it began today, the low sun’s
Promise, loose design, our graceful impulses
Shivering out the cold drunken afternoon.
She could still do it, star blue her outline.
Now it’s tomorrow and still blue her outline.
We break step and head for the bar.
In this arrangement there are two afternoons;
One bright and long past, one here, all dim.
She’s in the first one where the crowd pulses,
In this one the light is the weak pale sun’s
Breathlessness though is the moon’s, not the sun’s.
The dark silver surfaces’ fibrosed outline
Greasy with fear of the durational pulsing
That leaves tide rings, look, all over the bar
Where we lean together she and I only dimly
Aware of the breathing in the other afternoon.
If you thought you were dying for a whole afternoon
Staring down at glass ringmarks, at ecliptic suns
You’d feel weird in the evening, recalling dimly
How you had spoken to your son in outline
Only and how the cancelling sound of the bar
Set the day at a distance and the lung pulsing.
So in split screen: one room breathlessly pulses,
One’s a dark blue-lit dancehall in the afternoon.
Shuttered windows, a phone pivoting on the bar
Indicates, is an almanac of, cancelled suns.
I’m relentlessly insisting, I know, on the outline
Doubling. I’m like two of Giotto, shit and dimly.
It can’t stay dim forever eh? The fairground fairly pulses
At it’s rococo cherry outline, carolling the long afternoon.
Let’s check our pockets for suns and quit this fucking bar.