(to Wallace Stevens, after ‘Farewell without a Guitar’)
Spring’s bright promise has come to this.
So the thousand-dreamed home fails to show.
Ciao, those days.
The thousand-dreamed home
Speaks to this trumpet of lies
At its most venal culmination –
A Cape Flats gale,
A vast, stark corrugation,
In which a cab drives home without its riders,
Shades down. The recurrence of recounting,
The shunt and shuttles of raw senses
Of the riders that were,
Are ticking constructions,
Of zinc and sun, of state banality
And of those others and their desires.