march relentless


rain rain not in Spain
and our house a boat
cast in mould
drifting across these depths
of darkest ash

until at last, as of today
the air has turned Atlantic for good
we’re subaquatic now:
you and I adrift
in our fog-coloured motorcar
cautiously pushing the headlights ahead
in a yellow bubble twenty feet across,
the world a mystery globe
of assumed wood sorrel and olive groves.
Platero: and us?


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