Morning, a glass door, flashes
Gold names off the new city,
Whose white shelves and domes travel
The slow sky all day.
I land to stay here;
And the windows flock open
And the curtains fly out like doves
And a past dries in a wind.
 
Now let me lie down, under
A wide—branched indifference,
Shovel—faces like pennies
Down the back of the mind,
Find voices coined to
An argot of motor—horns,
And let the cluttered—up houses
Keep their thick lives to themselves.
 
For this ignorance of me
Seems a kind of innocence.
Fast enough I shall wound it:
Let me breathe till then
Its milk—aired Eden,
Till my own life impound it—
Slow—falling; grey—veil—hung; a theft,
A style of dying only.

  • 0
  • 0
  •  
  •  
Login to comment...
Email

Other works by Philip Larkin...