Here legs run and their humans
A pack of females, entangled
But they laugh, they joke
There are rivalries.
That’s okay, that’s not the worst
By any means. The field is clear.
Across the way small brown birds
Forage for worms, for shoots
And all the while the sun slides
In and out of haze and clouds
And thin sheets of light glint
From many soft lenses.
It’s not the lack of inner life
This simple celebration.
It’s simple, but not only simple.
You can keep honey hives, you can.
But certain bees can clump and sting whenever.
Death is difficult
As still preparing to fight
Knowing you will lose
Nudging a record
off half-way through. Difficult
But we cope, we cope.
If you are alone
Last out the morning, listen
For far off thunder.
tonight the totality of human knowledge
hit me on the head
I saw it coming out of the corner of my eye
but I couldn’t move in time
so I stood transfixed.
and it impacted my skull.
a small knowledge, the one I had
shoved, shot out the other side
and now I can barely speak
by what right do even these marks carry meaning
I garble at the passing of the gargantuan object
it all looked the same
so many fragmented taxonomies
so many grey papers,
and shock only at the mass
there is the solace.
the golden wisdom of myself.
slowly I engage again the differential.
Two cats curl up
in a seat
with a blue patterned cover
and under that cover
there is a crumpled up bed-sheet
and as they curl up
the white patches of their fur
make a kind of broken up blob
which someone (not me)
might call a heart.
I look, and then
I lie down in bed
and I don’t look at the empty side
of the bed.
A world shadow sunders the aching stone
While soft sweat skins me with fizz,
Dulls me to things which rest in dark hiding,
Woods-wall surge from the under-tree dark
Guiding lights and their nihilist drivers.
I see crisp packets tumble, like fragments of net
Caught in a deep sea current, and traces of flesh
From forgotten fish and dead
Are tumbling with them, waving as the wind waves grass
Concentratedly threshing it out.
The packets brim with bright marks
Crumpled, they spin and the marks
Read like symbolic productions
But the oil-shell is cavernous empty,
With the gusts, with the leaf-swells.
The wind, our material ancestor,
Placidly lends us her quality,
as memories lend them to dreams;
Our father and mother the wind,
Our breathing our sucking the wind
Our egg the wind our embryo
Our trace the wind our husks.
Carved whale bones blow in its kisses,
Clacking congealing the wind
In a storm front shivering rhapsody thing.
Terror swims inside me like a basking shark
It’s my sullen wake, it fills the air behind
As I’m drawn along suburban stone.
I see the wild forgotten as a dream is forgotten
I know I dreamed, but what was it?
I stand on a hill and see the city
Draining down its valley plughole
Soft scars left in the grading air.
I see this city move as a scrapheap moves
Slowly downwards, churning the earth.
Waiting for a bus I wait too long
And my figure, mistaken for a statue
By some routine artist in a tatty book
Is selected for the top of the heap
Which moves, and the wild falls further.
In a shifting forest, in the past beyond thought
A foraging girl picks out an acorn
From a dry skin of leaves, her breath
Marks the air. She leaves it
And the earth hurtles out from beneath.
The tv counts down to a slight delay.
The sun’s condensing hammer
And the earth’s revolving bourse
Sinking us like concrete pillars
Into the wet earth, grey and flaking
For one several second of time,
Some billion times, this second
Takes its place amongst the others
Crumbling under our thoughts
Each swollen moment by these alchohol lives
Is chorused with hoarse voices;
Burn’s burning words cut them
With a fine layer of flake-gold, gathering in tear-ducts, perhaps
to fall, or not to fall, and rest there aching;
Perhaps the year rang loss
Echoing out through companionable air
Dullening and blunting,
Til the whole resembled the part.
Perhaps you were uncomfortable.
Now metal-faced staring at the past to forget
Though it may be argued
The latter year fared little pain
Beyond the tearings of new news-paper
To our routine streets at least.
Tonight some of us take upon ourselves
The wrongs and sorrows of the earth
As if they were our flesh and blood
And they are.
So too are the vast outnumbering joys
from time to time to time each year which guide us
And a creeping enjoyment
I permit you to dwell on them.
And we can muddle
Til the morning, and the year fall full of clothes
onto the bed and black out