Up there in the swingers' district

where only the houses close their eyes

the mile of grass is an aired plain

every three lights one disappears

an interchange and a parting

a fox-fur collar fumbling at a door

open, shut, silence.

Late afternoon the cars glide

back from colour film and carpet ride.

Whistling twilight, the summer

is a newspaper frown.

You open the window and whisper zeros

the far-side wall, cement cracks

and you lean out in the colder air

as the wind dissolves your face.