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
Thinking of you now as I pass by the Riverside Cathedral
I remember how year after year we made time for lunch –
you standing under the big vase of flowers where we would meet
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,