The Cigarettes of Others
Beneath the night-foxes of North Parade, Michaelmas Sunday in the sudden rain.
Beneath elephant-skin and tortoiseshell,
the last time I saw the first friend I made. Beneath the below, the above begins with an overtaking whiteness in the underpass,
that streak of recklessness we never had, (well, so be it) as we race back in time,
piercing the dark with the cigarettes of others — those nights we left the spinning yard of ale for late kebab-van ice cream. Let’s steer again to that village where the next world is the past, to be lost with the night-cats of North Parade — beneath the cars parked with mirrors folded in, beneath the churches bending in the air like bird-flocks. Let’s flick a matchbox over the depthless glass until it stands on end, step out beneath a sky of fallen leaves, a sun of exploding clay.
Put the below above, put the above away.
69 ∫ The Alexandra Sequence