Hand lifted. Song.
He climbed to his feet in the cold light, and began
He clutched the shallow drum
He trailed a zither from
He tramped in the fading light
Her body bare, her tail
Her chair drawn to the door,
Her high heels sounded nearer
Heraldic, hatched in gold, a sacred tree
Hereabouts the signs are good.
Hero as liberator. There is also
I am soiled with the repetition of your loves and hatreds
I choose at random, knowing less and less.
I drank firmly
I have dreamt it again: standing suddenly still
I have kissed the inner earth
I have known the hissing assemblies.
I left the road where a stile entered the quiet wood.
I nodded. The books agree,
I pulled the heavy door over
I rose with need in the small hours
I was going up to say something,
I was on my own, fumbling at the neglect
I was pouring a drink when the night-monotony
I was sent in to see her.
I wonder whether one expects
In hospital where windows meet
In the creative generations there is often
In your ghost, Dick King, in your phantom vowels I read
Inistiogue itself is perfectly lovely,
It is the staling music of memory
It is time for bed. The cups and saucers are gathered
It is time I continued my fall.
It might be just as well not to worry too much
It smelled our laughter, then, in vivid shroud,
Lidless, lipless, opensocketed
Lips and tongue
Look.
Love’s doubts enrich my words; I stroke them out.
118
44
97
110
10
163
21
150
19
2
144
45
16
111
34
130
165
165
91
164
158
70
157
101
71
20
4
139
22
123
136
42
120
117
18
138
68
108
17
178
selected poems
