Broadcast

Giant whispering and coughing from 

Vast Sunday-full and organ-frowned-on spaces 

Precede a sudden scuttle on the drum, 

'The Queen', and huge resettling. Then begins 

A snivelling of the violins: 

I think of your face among all those faces, 

Beautiful and devout before 

Cascades of monumental slithering, 

One of your gloves unnoticed on the floor 

Beside those new, slightly-outmoded shoes. 

Here it goes quickly dark. I lose 

All but the outline of the still and withering 

Leaves on half-emptied trees. Behind 

The glowing wavebands, rabid storms of chording 

By being distant overpower my mind 

All the more shamelessly, their cut-off shout 

Leaving me desperate to pick out 

Your hands, tiny in all that air, applauding.