trying to clear my head
by way of lords
on a bus to beachy head
at the precise second the ball was bowled
over wenlock edge.
either a boundary or something –
in the bowler’s hand a difference seemingly,
a dance: suddenly a grenade, a warmth replaced by panic
in my head the word titanic.
brain on deck. to pass to faraway places such as france.
his loop made me think of adlestrop,
of the blue i hadn’t won at oxford:
the driver to cover,
suddenly alive to the possible that he and i were lover
as i sharpened eye and pencil,
the next moment was new beginning
and very slow like June i walked as ghost to the pavilion.