Wentworth Place, Hampstead

My blue too lavish—
    what strange powers
Hast thou, as a mere shadow—

for this latticed chair,
    empty lap facing the garden reeds,
lorry surf from the East Heath Road

causing a glass tremble in locked cases,
    comma of your hair pressed
in transparent zeroes burdened as air,

& behind this drape, hung
    from a surveillance camera,
a nimble spider, mica-crumb

envoy from the transient mezzanine
    of ardent, futile spinning.
I gazed until my heart was two.