their blank melody outside

in grey flannels

I saw her kiss you

I looked between the leaves and saw her

we must form into pairs

run up these stairs

counting each step

I have torn off the whole of May and June and 20 days of July

the week: one long day without divisions

I have 50 years, 60 years to spend

among guns and dogs

under a clock

the smell of turnip fields

my father, with his back turned

in one line of unwritten poetry

to be loved by Susan would be to be impaled by a birds’ sharp beak

something once splendid

winter days, summer days

we have scarcely broken into our horde

how entire Susan’s glance is

hold it forever

into the wave I throw my violence

come closer

 time tapers to a point

the tree, then the telephone pole

here it is November

I read one poem, one poem is enough

let us suppose

one poem on a page

a square upon an oblong

black as iron


before the first emotion is worn smooth

let us put down our lamps

on the edge of a hard bench

lying deep in a chair with one person

a button undone

it seems as if no leaf would ever fall

Susan with her hand in mine

says, ‘my ruined life, my wasted life.’

I clasp the return ticket to Waterloo

Susan cried and I followed

her wet pocket handkerchief and the sight of her little back heaving up and down like a pump handle

screwed my nerve up

I sat beside her

fiery and furtive

behind curtains

honest and animal

sea holly

white spray

always wet

how seldom visited

what we are not

filled with Susan’s tears

another 20th of March