34.

There was jazz playing in a room away

And the lit margin of the hill rippled

In the night, and the dead chapel

Ruined on a cliff felt like dust.

Dionysius blew his horn till dawn

And the madness of midsummer had come

Nothing was really predictable

Ever, the secrets of love and state

Rifted over the rocks of the port. The winds

Blew off Africa: all the goats had gone

And the vineyards looked like graveyards

And empires, like lovers, slipped away.

In time blood and drum pound, the space of light

Casting across your neck as you sing.