The London Hours
.
No more us and I, and them
Night time nearing at 1pm
No wind chill, no chills,
Remote coldness.
.
This winter isn’t like
The one you handed me
In colored paper
And ribbons I was excited to untie,
It will be the usual
Gloom of day-spair,
Of no directions,
No sense.
.
Look right, look left,
Mind the gap, do not cross,
Where to, no more zebras,
Just hyenas and victims,
Many of us.
.
I know you not,
You took up a different passport,
Broke the legs of time and sunk
Somewhere where I do not find
Air to breath and there are
No kisses to revive me.
.
It’s the tallest solitude,
No eyes to lay on,
No tiptoeing naked,
No coughing the bodies against,
No nightlong reviving.
.
No snow, no strolls, no fog,
No sleepover nestling.
No, no, no, no, no.
Yes, that’s all.
.
.