Plymouth

 

The union’s changed and
the underpass is gone, and
the walk down Sydney Street feels
like the memory of some dream
I once had, where the light
spilled more from the windows.
But the chambers are the same
and the clouds are more or less
identical; which is funny, because
new clouds roll over every place
a thousand times a day.

We sit by grand windows in the theatre bar
and the distance of four hours’ drive
makes the whole world suddenly
small again. I dowse my
dissonance and he reflects, earnestly
“I could live here again.”
The twenty-one years is crossed
in the lights of the midnight
street. Or the two years, or
the one. Or the nature of the next
reunion.

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