Stalking the embankments south towards the rail bridge,
past the theatre where Petr Lebl hanged himself
among the stage scenery. A pigeon's footprints in snow
under the statue of St Francis in ecstasy.
In this life, with so little to accomplish — reminded
of what surmounts, what subjects: the numerology
of tramways, the unspoken languages of pavement commerce.
Windows and love or normalisation. A billboard offers
shelter from History — and is it this in which we believe
or disbelieve? Thinking only of the next drink.
A big blue locomotive comes through the fog like an
old boxer steaming off the ropes, too beaten already.
You breathe and you go on, keeping close to the ground —
vague halo of a moon in its arc high up.
Suspecting time flows only in dreams or poetry —
each instant what it is and no other.
The yellow eyes of streetlights, turned inwards,
as if to see into the true state of things.
(Though we too are things.) Accomplishing small distances.
Night at swim in the river — the river flooded with light.