there was an old man
on the train from antwerp
no – sorry
brussels
and it had been raining
turning the fields to mud
we were waiting on the wrong bus
man tells us:
they come or they don’t
I wondered if he was afraid
of being alone
of what the night has promised him
who he was going to see
suddenly city
highway one moment
fortifications following
everything exploding
outwards in sooty starbursts
pockets of suburban dwelling
if you go to the outer walls
climb the steps of windmills
see there, the fine lines
where the city
rolls outwards
into stiffer forms
three hundred years
quarantined arterial waters flowed
that feeling remains
the one of a fever never sweat out
a sickroom never aired
a window half-open
the burst of late stage feeling
approaching the moment of combustion
