And one said, This man can sing;
Let’s listen to him. But the othe
Dirt on his mind, said, No, let’s
Queer him. And the first, being w
Consented. So the Thing came

And God held in his hand
A small globe. Look he said.
The son looked. Far off,
As through water, he saw
A scorched land of fierce

Who said to the trout,
You shall die on Good Friday
To be food for a man
And his pretty lady?
It was I, said God,

We live in our own world,
A world that is too small
For you to stoop and enter
Even on hands and knees,
The adult subterfuge.

You go up the long track
That will take a car, but is best
On slow foot, noting the lichen
That writes history on the page
Of the grey rock. Trees are about

I emerge from the mind’s
cave into the worse darkness
outside, where things pass and
the Lord is in none of them.
I have heard the still, small voic

Laid now on his smooth bed
For the last time, watching dully
Through heavy eyelids the day’s co
Widow the sky, what can he say
Worthy of record, the books all op

My father is dead.
I who am look at him
who is not, as once he
went looking for me
in the woman who was.

For the first twenty years you are
Bodily that is: as a poet, of cour
You are not born yet. It’s the ne
You cut your teeth on to emerge sm
For your brash courtship of the mu

It is this great absence
that is like a presence, that comp
me to address it without hope
of a reply. It is a room I enter
from which someone has just