A Quadrille

[calico]

We dangle, apart, on barstools
that swivel, not swivelling,
not touching the ground

"talked and talked...had dinner, lunch, tea...!"
you mention her and you mention him,
the windows stream with needling rain.
I think of home, like a migraine.

Through back streets, away
from high streets
and lights, turning
corners, fast past the cranes,
in Ion Square Gardens I circle the swings,
in circumscribed steps,
a winged shape
describing the night.