Passage to Exile

Highgate Cemetery, London

We are used to blurriness here in the temperate regions. When the air is too clear, I walk like a drunk, hesitating & veering around sharp-edged shadows that come alive when they move. Too bald a truth appalls us. I can’t remember the last time I spoke unironically of love. It’s best to be circumspect. We are used to being watched by paraplegic angels over closed-circuit TV. Our children play hangman with blackboard and chalk. Listen, if we hate poets here, it’s only because they brandish empty wash tubs instead of roses & remind us we’re all in exile from our dreams.