broad panorama of your eyes
a digitally-sketched sprawling world,
not yet shaded.
the blocks and squares of this age
press against Antonian dusty sands and
everything, everything, a sliding slope,
a pioneer’s bridge into the next,
slide down, dive down, on an honour-roll drive
Madrid’s three candles draped in sky:
artfully, artlessly, throat-stoppingly
who said you can’t see wind?
well you can – you can
lifted, lifted away, always alzado
the ghost of the mountains that my eyes paint in
long sweep of the greyred and the
dusky, dusty, misplaced desert
filling up the sky.