The day was swampy. It rained the crimson heads
right off the azaleas. Every minute we were together
things were about to be said, but then they would slip away
and something odd would fall out of the sky, as it were:
a weather-beaten shoe caught up in a cranky tree,
a boat not cut to tackle the arrogant waves.
You said you liked my coat, and I happened to like yours
but couldn't say it. We smelt the smoke of a passing Cortina
whose dingy engine was dying for a service,
and when it rained again, for the seventh time, we fled
into the cut-out world of a pancake parlour
where we sat on pew-hard benches, beneath a stained glass window
that was tacky and beer-amber, and bore a hairline crack.
It seems such a shame to have to drag it all up now.
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