Narrated by a Committee
The enamelled moon
rode over the long cool world
as we stepped outside to get some air.
Birds from other area codes
sang parts of songs
out in the park,
the light pulse of the seminary
faded in the wax trees,
as we strolled around
talking about the burden of inheritance tax
and the elegance of watering cans.
We walked between Hill 49 and Hill 50,
then over the old river,
slow and thin for miles,
before it disappeared underground.
At the park’s wild core
where lamp posts frontier the old dark
we saw the fountains remaking themselves
over and over again,
badgers and spectres
rocketing through the shrubbery,
we saw the night leaking out the western doors
and talked about returning to the committee room,
to the oak chairs, ice water and gavels
when the sound of snapping branches
made us turn to see
the caribou crossing the Nikon.