In the fourth Orb of Oxiana,
Persian time stands still like an aniseed ball.
Routed paper eyes ceremoniously the eagle.
Belted comets sing to the earth like spider-boned chapters.
Dark.
It is like the crisp sing duet that never closes its eyes.
Box woven like glue under the carpet,
almost Marzipan - triumphant in a celestial glory.
Uncle Tony's shoe was found by the chip-shop on Monday.
