dream of the countryside in spring.
the birds with their songs and spaces.
we are so immersed in london now,
the fields have smoked into black-

to burning stubble. when will we be 
old enough to retire from the mall- 
if ever? faces always open, the lights
and music have infected us into 

staying. no forks or combines, no vivid
sun that yolks onto the top meadow in
black strips of ripped up tights, no cockerel
sounding out the death bell, nor silence.