There was an aureole burning
On the chandler’s son, from whom
His mother bought their evenings
Reading in the drawing room
With but four humours, how
Was he to describe an ambush
Springing from deep eyes, how
To explain near-transparent flesh
Or a voice downwind of Eden
–
In a world one shade brighter
He has hay-stung afternoons with
Translucent light leaving weals
Perfect, and gone too swiftly
His mother reads flickering print
And he is listening to the voice
Of the chandler’s brown-haired boy
Serial Outlet 