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But still there are days


like today when the sky is all-day boozey & ends
as it began in the too-blue night of a fifties western

& the rump of summer cheats a long-slow afternoon
from autumn    while      on busy streets the tiny bones of feet

chatter as they creak & bounce along         & we smoke in the park
only to pass kisses back and forth hung like unspoken words

on the tip of the roach           we stumble through fizzing streets
where everyone is freshly fleshy & real about their sharp

bright faces             before it is dark          again & everything familiar
& singular again               & briefly it is not too much                    

briefly not much too much      & the space between us
feels contingent, unimportant, still-contested          thin & pressed

between our faces & tomorrow –  history is neither now
nor England           though it feels not so very far away