[orig. poem] 'a ghost on stoke village hill'
On a top I oversee the city. I face it square; its squares, My suited back to the heat.
It’s a morning drunk with renewed Summer sun Already warm, Birds gossip and squawks Echo above the quiet, hidden Beginning of our activities. A train is set to move sleepily across. A clang of industry; An engine far away Melts into the distant, buried thunder Of some ship, or a large machine.
All the huddled Plymouth homes are waiting for eyes To fall out of doors and windows And start walking On the long, steady legs of our race. Small voices arrive nearby with dogs. A chain rattles and goes taut Owning someone with its little clinks - Adding already to a whole, soft orchestration. ‘Oh no. Oh bloody hell.’ In sympathetic attempt. ‘Wheelie! Stop!’ ‘Who are you?!’ - a joke - ‘Haha!’ ‘How is he?’ ‘I feel so sorry…’ ‘Really?’...
Yes, really. We bubble over, into the day, We are all to work in For the machination of its ways, our world, our non-being; To feed that low, far off rumble With traversing words - Those unseen ships in the distance - We arrange ourselves before within these corners; On these shores.
Here, at least - In this space and this ‘sometime’ - As one more lord, or next in line Of this lost realm - Just now recharging - Not yet turned on - I would smoke a good coffee, Drink one last cigarette And think of everything; everybody; Smile at nothingness; The summons of a church city bell.
Sleepy, waking city Laying it all down again Where are my girls? My lovers, and old comrades? I hold a future for you all still in me. I am not yet a ghost, am I? Not yet a ghost?
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