With a silent movie's flicker on an aster sky,
the starlings wheel St. Mary's spire, tilt,
so that, like Venetian blinds, you see less
of them. Later (after espresso at
The Rubáiyát), the ivy walls screechscreech
screechscreech like rusty cot springs. Can you see
even one among the leaves? And in
an alleyway of old brick walls, zapped
by lightning fire escapes, against a gust
of burger-scent and grime, I make a lantern
of my fist. Get grit in eye. Cigarette lit.
And see behind a dingy windowpane
one red geranium. And later still,
the clean-edged roofs against an orchid sky.