A finer-grained time lies thicker on the ground.
We take out the warm lining of overcoats,
Replace one sleeve with a sleeve of a different colour.
Beyond the slower times the city dreams itself,
Dreams of itself, its footprints, the nightwalk,
Alarm all night becomes a kind of weather.
There was no walk, not for me, nothing to read,
Sick without books, day, I wasted you,
The young, strong, demanding sun, the unwounded leaves.
Useless in the shadows of the sheds, I invented
A small abandoned notebook of doubts concerning
Words, held it between my two heart fingers.
And the sight of the end of the platform
Loosened a very long perfume that had ease
Of gathering into my ceiling blue as an eyelid.