it's from memory
streets narrow
in duty to the roaring smog
dizzy
with the same arc of phlegm
tangent of eye
there's an old man
reading a newspaper
not today's
maybe a hundred years old
still news to him
it is a town of superstitions
no knowing what's been missed
an old woman
is ironing creases
in and out of cheongsam
voices scrawl through the grubby air
this is a hand written town
the old pencil is left between pages
there's that fellow who labours the street with his words
his circuit narrows to these same few turnings
there's the discord of traffic stopping,
for itself again
couldn't call it a courtesy
the ancient lens burns all the same
the whole town fits on the head of a pin
the town is a wheel
in halting motion
the pavement of spat seeds
dust not quite settled
the watchmaker's ash yet to drop from his filter
through all the town
a sulky swagger
come the old houses foreheads weed wreathed
church—any good god could rent
a screwed up face
eyes drift to work
slaps the paint over
any old passage of sky
the town is
museum for the ancient trades
of hair removal, tooth extraction, operatic posture
cricket locked under wicker
. . . the barracking goes on for all this
for the past is a nation in which we may pride
. . . no nation here
but trust in the streets
some still struck with their calls
'dumplings coming' or 'cardboard removed'
the whole town
fits on the head of a pin
a wheel and wound
and wound to spin
try your luck
and no time like the present
brings you against the what's-to-be
civic minded this perambulation
builds character
the town being merely
where feet have once fallen
it is a town of characters
the whole of it fits on the head of a pin
a dizzying instance
when it spins
and it spins and it spins
and it spins
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