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 song.
or the moon.
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.