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.