For Barbara

I step off the pavement

Like a precipice

Engage the darting sunshafts

In a duel

In the wall’s shadow I web

My prints to pattern

The moist stone virgins.

The lawns are white-coated

Their throats red

With berries and bird-song;

In petrified gardens

Hyacinth tongues lip the wall.

Leaf mould muffles my heel-taps

The enormous trees totter

In the hyaline air; I hear the

Sunday strollers in their

Mist-making walks, pressing through them

Like some voiceless ghost.

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