A shattered army, Thames’ filthy
Not a beautiful spectacle
For the drinkers of history, or fo
Or my friends, this island’s paral
Wordsworth’s head went down here s

The stick insect sitting at his st
In the little lamp of his belly is
Lost among glittering traffic, and
A toad is stone-motion, mould-prid
The jewel in this head is the wisd

This house has been far out at sea
The woods crashing through darknes
Winds stampeding the fields under
Floundering black astride and blin
Till day rose; then under an orang

The tractor stands frozen —an agon
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. No
A spill of molten ice, smoking sno
Pours into its steel.

The mahogany table-top you smashed
Had been the broad plank top
Of my mother’s heirloom sideboard—
Mapped with the scars of my whole
That came under the hammer.

You had to come
Calling my singularity
In scorn,
Imprisonment.
It contained content

Who owns those scrawny little feet
Who owns this bristly scorched—loo
Who owns these still—working lungs
Who owns this utility coat of musc
Who owns these unspeakable guts?

On the sheep-cropped summit, under
The mouse crouched, staring out th
It dared not take.
Time and a world
Too old to alter, the five mile pr

Stirs its ashes and embers, its bu
An eye powdered over, half melted
Ponders
Ideas that collapse
At the first touch of attention

I saw my world again through your
As I would see it again through y
Through your eyes it was foreign.
Plain hedge hawthorns were peculia
A mystery of peculiar lore and doi