to Nicholas Vayle
Oh sunday night, you lost your quiet light,
the vapour clothed your roofs, the viper hissed.
Your dying hours give me forgetful bite,
while binding in their heavy turbid mist.
Oh sunday night, your blood-red horizon
is dripping on the grass from butcher's axe.
Come, whining wind, and wipe what you alone
can wash away from freshly raised racks.
Oh sluggish sunday, take your slaying sword
from time still trembling in the black-hole trap,
just push high current through my venous cord,
just open wide the rusty rainbow tap.
Oh treacherous night, stop paving brick by brick
the ruinous road to everlasting week.
