Poem

They are stored in a box,
jewelled eggs:

The lover who says I’m sorry, I just
don’t want you anymore.
I woke up and the light
had gone out.

Seeing people who remind you
just a little of the dead
is always mildly disconcerting –

something in the face, the gait,
the shoulders from behind,
those likenesses that don’t surprise

The sudden blush on us        you move
as wind sweeps across blue water
you move       the clouds

for C.                 
                                        d, undrilled
                                     rock
    Had it been
wanted                       how had  

High dungeon was a feeling I knew well
When mockery from men weighed on my soul.
As your Prime Minister I went through hell,
If I can say so without hyperbowl.

I am building my roof of turf   my peaty sheath
a coveted blanket   roll me up in it and I go out
like a light   like the wisp rising at night
that country people swear they see and steer clear of

1.

Anywhere’s more homely
than this field day to mortality,
accumulating severances
that wrangle distance
like before and after’s rosary of rue.

So, summoned by that call across the wide
And complicated city, pressed
And yet reluctant to arrive,
We found among the ranks of the distressed,