Suspended lion face
Spilling at the centre
Of an unfurnished sky
How still you stand,
And how unaided

The little lives of earth and form
Of finding food, and keeping warm,
Are not like ours, and yet
A kinship lingers nonetheless:
We hanker for the homeliness

Groping back to bed after a piss
I part thick curtains, and am star
The rapid clouds, the moon’s clean
Four o’clock: wedge-shadowed garde
Under a cavernous, a wind-picked s

‘This was Mr Bleaney’s room. He
The whole time he was at the Bodi
They moved him.’ Flowered curtain
Fall to within five inches of the
Whose window shows a strip of buil

Quarterly, is it, money reproaches
‘Why do you let me lie here wastef
I am all you never had of goods an
You could get them still by writin
So I look at others, what they do

In frames as large as rooms that f
And block the ends of streets with
Screen graves with custard, cover
Of motor—oil and cuts of salmon, s
Perpetually these sharply—pictured

Standing under the fobbed
Impendent belly of Time
Tell me the truth, I said,
Teach me the way things go.
All the other lads there

This empty street, this sky to bla
This air, a little indistinct with
Like a reflection, constitute the
A time traditionally soured,
A time unrecommended by event.

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief
Is it that they are born again

When she came on, you couldn’t kee
Fighting your way up through the o
Tup—heavy bumpkin, you confused yo
Fell in the drum —how we went ha h
But once you gained her side and s