the winter was, with blades
over Hackney Road,
several times, a Chinese opera perfection
you might have lost, later, in the ground of the general —
the blossoming of things
from their stems out — [mistaking
for the old winter
the new growth frozen, by a glance too brief
to catch the shift] had we not seen
these lantern pearls; these sky-blue filigrees
walking Sunday from Spitalfields,
wings, all this laddering
of layers: no copper joint holds heaven
here to all that falls, this imprecise
of broken walls; near Albion Drive, this purple
skyburst of climbing herbs.
(Something like the song)
or the moon.
Pollen in the air.
This also the way home;
& though the boughs are low
and you must crawl,
feel the dust. Of itself, you are
dust. Of iron, stars. wherever
where the dust is from:
a fault in the nothing
weighs down the light
love, tell me again, what it is
we know & do not know.
these leaves, since
heaped, are thrown —
love given, against the
chill of this season:
what this place, made bonfire-lit for this occasion
[ is suddenly shown.