A single post, a point of rusting
tin in the sky
marks the fated place we
move to, he and I
on time as death is
prompt strangely
too smooth the gesture of
his hat to me
menace at the edges of his
eyes his mouth tight
shut strangely too low is the
bow he makes tonight
on time? that false note in
his voice, what
is it the brain alerts to and the
heart drops at?
under that evil sky, that sign of
tin and rust.
Six o'clock. There he is waiting
by the post.
Now we kiss soundlessly, his
lips stiff as
hands are given to queens, or
dead people thus
round us the shoving elbows of
ordinary bustle
and strangely irksome rises the
screech of a whistle
howls like a dog screaming
angrier, longer: what
a nightmare strangeness life is
at death point
and that nightmare reached my waist
only last night
and now reaches the stars, it has
grown to its true height
crying silently love love until
—Has it gone
six, shall we go to the cinema?
I shout it! home!
And what have we come to?
tents of nomads
thunder and drawn swords over
our heads, some
terror we expect
listen houses
collapsing in the one
word: home.
It is the whine of a cossetted
child lost, it is the
noise a baby makes for
give and mine.
Brother in dissipation, cause
of this cold fever, you
hurry now to get home just
as men rush in leaving
like a horse jerking the
line rope down in the dust.
Is there even a building there?
Ten steps before us.
A house on the hill no higher a
house on the top of the hill and
a window under the roof is it
from the red sun alone
it is burning? or is it my life
which must begin again? how
simple poems are: it means I
must go out into the night
(and talk to
who shall I tell my sorrow
my horror greener than ice?
—You've been thinking too much.
A solemn answer: yes.
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