87.
Roar of the mirror whine of the hedge
ask nothing of me, disturb less than
one word does
noise left and right unending
no more nuisance really than the fish
in the sea
when I sit and look at surf rolling
in
as if I were part of something even
this
Battle of Actium before me surf
creams on shingle
Antony impaled and Cleo’s left breast
toxic-nibbled
and all the lovely stories end at
once
I spent my whole childhood believing
and childhood never manages to end
the waves her pure right breast, and
go weep.
88.
And have nothing to do but this
in the comfy prison of reality
no more work to do but make time pass
change the names of all those wicked
places
salt marsh no hay a bracelet of
Whitby jet
I went there for the sky the wet
horizon
timothy grass belonging from black
mud
weathered narrow boardwalk over muck
a thousand birds and only there ever
alone
and no room left to plant the lettuce
barely room for dancing with
Valkyries
high above the north sky where once a
city is.
