Signed in her Absence

Well then. The days became hugely enlarged,
illuminated by bright vacancy. Jetstreams
ploughed meagre furrows across their fields,
and kestrels bundled hooks and feathers
to stoop on squealing prey. I too
was predated upon by nothing
so efficient as those killing machines.
Instead, a dull persistent ache
somewhere deep down in the gut. No more.
Have debouched now into the camp campanile, its
illusions of space and splendour.
All of it a trick of prestidigitation.

I am asked: Do you give a sweet damn?
And loftily reply, as I step down
from the jaunting-car: I am a tourist here,
enjoying your rebel songs and gaudy nights.
-- But the expense is eating up my meagre
resources, so I am forced to draw on
a joint account that I am told is closed.
Here is my signature. It is worth nothing.