In a cloud of light, a drift of smoke
they see it, they see a projection through
shining winter hair and laughter,
not hiding so much as extending
a sense of solidifying music in a
very major key. Everything's fine
and growing in the warm summer
lucidity, a frozen bare-legged stride,
a pirouette, a warm sophistication.
Just 20 quid and there it is again,
stretched across the dirty brickwork.
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