Electric lamps illuminate
The terrace and the trees behind,
Where unsurprisingly we find
The chauffeur of the potentate
This isn’t silence. There’s a shade
Of traffic from the boulevard.
A lone cicada in the yard
Pipes midnight. Everything is made
Of molecules of jade.
French windows, opening, impose
An amber flag along the grass.
Four bars of conversation pass.
A man comes with a large pink rose
Rehearsing as he goes.
That’s her new raincoat on the chairs,
Balloon glass on the balustrade.
Her lovers, and the friends just made,
Are gathered by the pantry stairs
Extemporising airs.
Nothing is said and nothing spent.
That which occurs is what occurs.
Somebody finds a shoe. It’s hers.
The lantern and its filament
Irradiate what’s meant.
Why don’t we just get out of here,
And ditch the mermaid and the priest.
Somewhere slightly south of east
The foreshore burns before the feast,
Portents and wonders will appear,
Orion’s dog will fire the year,
The gypsy’s chandelier.