City of stags and spires, diurnally blissed with mist. We wake
to ornate, high-ceilinged rooms, bleed in with the damp
The sad racket of the morning tram (rattling
of building) is as much
as the day can really bear
of thuds, of God’s idiotic
Lo-Fi for the river, Clarendon
for the cars – who’s to blame
for what we try to avoid feeling?
The sun (today an ashen disc)
in a sky that’s forgetting.