at the high
pointed village. basque, perhaps. some thing
where the
older men
are going off about how lovely the horizon
is come daybreak.

there are places I shall never go.

and here is one of them.
the lights around are dimming
with the storm. there is a crucial
to the fretful atmosphere rubbing
up against
the calves of 10:57 pm.

side the violet miasma from
the stadium is Aix. far and far off brilliant
words are spoken. an editor falls asleep;
a lit
cigarette still gasping in his
furrowed mouth. some of the more tender things. he has seen much of
the world
and know which two ways
are best if there is one way
left to
ride. these are the tools of the trade! shirking underneath the
heavy table cloth because
at midnight the football lights are (by-the-town) switched off
leaving that line
of blinking blindness round
the space that might have been a basque horizon. idealized frescoes.

a man
is not my
and who
I do not
hear speak
and whom
I know
nothing of

is singing quite loudly an old Italian song. about coming back or going back or returning backwards when what if home
is east or west? not always (true)

there are places
I shall never