Eyes unroll like braking wheels.
Wonder leavens languid reels.
Time distends precious and sure
a childlike patience for pleasure.
Somewhere,
a hemisphere away,
a refugee caravan
is slowed by rain
and I must sing it.
There is a whistle and then a blast.
The scent of cordite
buries hearts in ash.
This music never stays.
It harrows up days
in waves breaking ruin.
