You appeared on TV the other day, flash thirty seconds
for Lost Persons, with a picture certain names were mentioned,
or made out from what you managed.
My name must sound strange in that city, where I left
endless walks, hat and my poncho
under smoky rains and freak white winter storms.
Our house will be on the market
boxes of old books and empty jars
and the gramophone on two, three single repeated tracks.
Here, holding on, I turn on the stove in the dark
to see the gas ring – blue
when outside if I try hard, Sirius.
Things crossed out of a list, things take years, and things
for fire. Old old utterings. Abba, cities and ruins, the outlaying for what?
Nothing will bother you now, I guess
The trains continue coming and going. Rome, near Termini
after a shivering night I woke up, finding myself looking for
a burial ground for a man who looked like all of us
father and child, and continued.
That scene repeated in my head is definitely a thing for fire.