Lewisham Visitation

A football oval somewhere –––– long verdurous grass growing thick from good soil.
By the footpath concrete, sitting, watching the ancestor of an illegal dutch immigrant,
Who last week just lost it and sat on his desk upside down in a rage,
And the kindergarten teacher with her dog,
A small little animal with short curled fur and a grinning mouth,
And slow-like, the thin strips of velvet silver smoke ascend into the blue air
Twirling infinite-fold in curlicue pirouettes rising rising into broader strokes across the air
That encompasses even the entire oval and the smoke dematerializes
A few inches above my fingers,
Widen yr aperture let me see the sunset in yr eye all red and beautiful as the world goes to sleep in yr

Wither goes the dutchman? Thither goes the sex-monkey
Driven wild by the sight of a schoolboy,
And slow now, there passes a
Brown-haired girl,
With prosodic grace
And bhikkhuni simplicity. . .
While somnolent and watchful the bell tower pokes its head curiously above the clouds,
And ululates its paean of creation and worldly grandeur
To vibrate across a purple sky
Purple sky all round the world at that moment while
Over in France,
They hum the melody–
Ma, visitation of the sun not forgotten,
Forever in my browning skin,
Ni, sundry planets suspend themselves,
and look up from their darkness
Everybody looking up in the universe
No one looking down
At the lights that glitter so good
From this cushioned

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Author: Tom Harris

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