The day came and went. Dawn. Vows. Sleep. A drunk on a level crossing. Three pigeons on a red tile roof. Now for the monastery, the silence. So much to cherish in the new loneliness. A pale joke surfaces, fades. How many Events can you recall? The photomontage of funerals, those peculiar comings-of-age. I dream of grey balloons and headstones, sofas slo-mo-revolving  next to the newly-christened saintly little  bully. All this innocence is congealing down near the bend in the river with the ICI overspill. The requisite Welsh couple turn out to be foreign. Mountains are  brought to heel in a pamper of confetti. Everything good is this well-dressed. Think of Peter the Great, and his lewd barber. Think of Henry’s opthalmologist’s lover. I am torn. Circularity, lachrymosity like goat’s butter down my new black habit.

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