Alan Brownjohn

As No Art Is

The weekend’s on us, and no means of soothing it
or kissing it away. The flat facades
of mansion blocks curve towards silence. The sun
gets everywhere in this canyon, but property
holds its desperations in: the same flying ant
is all that moves along the same trouser folds.

I go to the park for late afternoon to arrive
among the memorials in their set-back space,
their immortality in the last century,
their short life-spans.

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