I look over, & in those blurry eyes
I cannot help but see an outline
Of you, half-reclining, a tie,
Across your stomach, your
Perfectly manicured pocket
Square beneath the terracotta
Pate of head.
It wasn’t you after all. It was
Brown sofa, broken up, white vase,
A decorative plate.
Myopic—— that’s what you were
Amongst Kampala nights spread out
—— head-first, they fell towards
The edge of lake ——
—— and didn’t drown, didn’t die——
Dramatically fly themselves towards
Reflective mists between moon borders,
Smog-smudged as if by someone’s finger
To ink-black waters.