and suddenly I was in this little place in
Christianshavn, drinking coffee, eating pear
pie and watching the Danes tog the streets
in every wrap, because it blows so uncomfortably
nordic up the canals and we were on the corner
of just such one, behind glass which sheets and
separates the music from the moan, little table
candles straight up against the sheeting collars,
a lip-red rose from a tatter-red flag, as old
men creak in jeans and padded jackets, ladies
hide in drawn scarves and under wool, prams
flog and tack the cobbled banks, gloved
handlebars run the mullions, and chat is
collared-up, fur-lined and on the move, not
static, not dormant, never dwelling, never
stalled and the tune winds and winds, the
glasses collect and the moment hangs from
a dance, table to counter to washer to shelf
to till to table to till and turns to join
the note again in perfect pitch, held in blue,
held on a second