Well then. The days became hugely enlarged,
illuminated by bright vacancy. Jetstreams
ploughed meagre furrows across their fields,
and kestrels bundled hooks and feathers
to stoop on squealing prey. I too
was predated upon by nothing
so efficient as those killing machines.
Instead, a dull persistent ache
somewhere deep down in the gut. No more.
Have debouched now into the camp campanile, its
illusions of space and splendour.
All of it a trick of prestidigitation.
I am asked: Do you give a sweet damn?
And loftily reply, as I step down
from the jaunting-car: I am a tourist here,
enjoying your rebel songs and gaudy nights.
-- But the expense is eating up my meagre
resources, so I am forced to draw on
a joint account that I am told is closed.
Here is my signature. It is worth nothing.