1
Back home from hospital again.
You read Invisible Cities outside
in the morning sun. A small lizard appears.
Its solar-powered musculature moves
across the paving stones. Its skin is both matte
and jewelled in the sunlight. It stops and flicks
its front legs down to its sides, like an ingenious
Edwardian gadget snapping itself shut.
You and the creature take in the sun, then
the lizard heads for the maze of grass,
hiding from the hard-nosed suburban birds.
You take yourself indoors into the dark of the house,
clutching Calvino, the old fabulist.
2
Later, the sun performs its drawn-out
power-down, summer already merciless.
You take the dog for a walk, its gait ginger,
while it fusses over what to piss on.
Around the corner, the audacious stadium lights
vie against the sunset. The smell of frying meat
is in the air; the bitter taste of Anginine
under your tongue.
3
You read at night, while a lawless wind
upsets the house. You lose your thread.
Calvino engenders fantasies. Dark staircases
frequented by music students and government men;
a forest in which night squats;
an empty Ferris wheel, with all its moral weight.
The dog in his fur
sleeps on dusty floorboards,
and twitches like a muscle.
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