In the dream a war cry circles
that heats you awake.
The skylight’s concourse to heaven clasps history’s majestic ghosts
relaxing in fête galante, and then return.
Grass falls from a ruff.

2.
Each photograph a self displayed,
each self a porthole
the world reshapes to fit.
Cling to what knows you,
the bunched trees stopped still in a driveway,
phalanx of bins trucks grip,
the drooping puppets on a verandah.

Grey sky flattens the city
like feelings thinking
how best to advance
away from the hour’s lost hotel.
Faces tilt to the light like solar panels in a field.
The human face of capital
like a previous unfinished longing, totally erodes.