The pears in the bowl go to tiger country.
Too steep to cultivate, too wild to settle:
Man gives way there, admits defeat, walks home.
And all your moments were hung together:
like a necklace slipping off a table,
all the links go in a slither of silver —
she goes with one moment,
and with that moment goes all time.
The pears vanish and the back door slams.
The sky vanishes and grief begins.
You finger a necklace around your throat,
and she comes back again,
although it is not really her.
She puts her finger to your mouth,
but it is not really you,
and you kiss her.

So you find holes opening up where the landscape slumps.
A hole in the car, a hole in the bed,
a film which is all middle,
a doughnut-shaped cloud in your dream.
You can’t seem to admit the existence of tiger country.
You can’t let go of something which has already gone.
And you’re lost, in landslide weather,
where cities pour down into themselves
in flame-swallower summers just
when the air grows slightly attenuated with autumn.
It’s hard, when you’re in the centre of a rose
not to be a rose.
But you wander like a ghost,
searching forever to get back
something that was never there.
And then the streets rise, and she calls.

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