The fly is terribly excited by the window pane.
Dances upon it, swerves off only to rush back
to do his lucky-strike prospector jig once more.
Will night never come?
The sky’s gone all idée fixe, shouting its word
over and over: blueness! blueness! blueness! Oh, the
relief when Nine turns the sky into the flag of Japan!
Will night never come?
The heartbreaking clarity of western skylines.
This is the stuff that lungs wrap themselves round.
This is what the bubble in the spirit-level is made of.
Will night never come?
Today is the longest day of the year,
After today, a tailor with a flawlessly stitched face,
the year starts pinning back its bolt of blue cloth.
Will night never come?
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