All the other stuff
Noise
Easily led and distracted
Unable to hear
The dismantled ticking of the clock
Or the regurgitations
Of your own intestinal canal
Then to make the moments longer
To hear the wood-saw in the distance
We bathe our toes
In rivers
And far away sub-tropical sands
As if the hour glass is the mirror
Of all that passes through our fingers
The dollars and the rand
The pebbles, the salted still sea water
Grand hotels and dingy basements
Cafes on the Sorbonne and the Strand
This is past stuff
Names with evocation which I land
Perhaps, yes, maybe it is only the pretentious
Which I really, yes, that I truly understand
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