From the bus I
gazed at the corrugated
iron walls of the hut near
the airfield in
which the redeemer
lay hidden. His girlfriend
sat outside, smoking,
wrapped in a blanket
of fine wool
to insulate herself
against ghosts. A phrase
heard in an empty room,
the oracle misheard,
interpreted by a
stupid man: I trade gold
for wood. So he had
lessened, wandering
alone by night to
stand naked among weeds
and rubbish in order
to greet the first
dog to climb the sky:
not Sirius but Procyon.