On Primrose Hill
The snow-globe city and a can of lager
Within reach, the stars veiled and coy,
Fading like film in your grandpa’s attic.
A little back from us a galaxy, a group of men
Revolving energies, chanting or dancing,
Fighting maybe. The pulse flared out.
And then, through the long grass
Like low-riding meteors
Men dressed for Friday prayers
Appearing from the night.
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