The ginnel, the tunnel, the pit prop
Fairgrounds laid down for the focus
The stasis stayed with me; amplified in my memory
By being chosen both here, as well as from way across the water
From the pictures and the words it is such a small step
There to here, to hear now, it is the brass band playing
And to smell the cobbles, fresh with mist fallen rain
With the footprints of the bakers dozen early in the morning
Easy then, as now, not to pick up a brush
Or some other suitable vocation, to stay steady
Going nowhere, being nowhere until procreation
Put its head around your open door
You take her to the kitchen, you take each other on the floor
The two of you with your sudden rush of blood
While being indulgent in the shortest softest moment
Sets yourselves up for the hardest lines of your life
Photographs; nearer now than any of the present
Times they speak of
The face, the finger, the wavy hair; fairgrounds remembered
Stood around, only for the loci, or for the locomotion
