Ah! Those dreams of freedom:
ah! The perfect party, every
one, you know, so much, so like
the perfect poem & a harmony
not slept on
but undreamt or drunk
this one begins an old
itch bubbling up
of amateur musicianship, lovers
of the art, dear children
& their children's friends: Old
Blind Pugh, Long John, the
sudden chase & a silence.
We play on. The sun sets.
Just strangers can be so friendly.
Oh you work in publishing too?
Anna wants to go. The ducks
& then the long slide & the short one.
It's dark. Let's have tea. The party
breaks up. This poem ends.