London
Pastoral I want to tell you
something: for three nights now a bird has sung in the road trees. A water
song. The neighbours are complaining; no one knows what species the bird
is. No one even sees it. Pools coupons titter against chain-links. Chip
cartons scuttle past time-delayed, time-locked shopfronts. Then the bird starts
to sing.
You’ll hear it with the window open, even when the first rain
gathers to a downpour, hallways sweet with the residue of road-tar. Then
you can grin, or watch me grin at woodpigeons in wet weather sat in the
road trees, suffering damp white collars. Like divorcees, not looking at
one another.
from Midnight
in the City of Clocks


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