Lonely shoal that the same uncertain wave
washes with the same short beat.
leaning buoy, the same gull’s seat
day after day,
beneath low skies that gave
and heat! And I gazed:
long been in motion here,
I should have
seen it, for the law is clear,
that applies – each wave thus phased
same thesis, and I should recall
just how it
was, though can recall no more,
this gull so crucial. Its beak’s caught
against the waves. Scared its calm or
might overcome me, both all
too great, across
the waves my eyes still sought.
warm wind. The moon obscured by trees.
A table, the boy just made out, dim from birth,
that scrapes the last drops from the bowl. This earth.
This warm wind. And now carried on this breeze
from a darkening lake a raw scent as of a
drowned man not recovered. And I, conferred
to be alive, walk through the grass. The selfsame word
for that autumnal water scent, the moon that hovers
anxiously on watch, and then the night that goes
on growing, the yellow light that lights a small square
of a courtyard, moist earth that has a scent
of rotting pears, the cat up on its toes
that slyly sneaks through shrubbery. And there
came no rain. That word would have been heaven-sent.
something about you you don’t know,
You are a dog.
In frosty autumn earth
for a hidden bumblebee. A word
for this could
be a ‘truth affliction’. I know:
Minus ‘affliction’. Secretly
animals for this: there is no word
what they do. Just as deferred
the outcome, wordless,
with no uncertainty
thin body a fierce struggle streams.
You are a dog.
The faint and stubborn sound
that leads you
is an insect. And you don’t know
that you will
die. Outer events it seems
All coincide. The
same faint stubborn sound.
something about me I don’t know.
To one below
the surface of the ice
the ice itself
looks as if something white
and wind wells where still quite
moves, look, if there’s a slice
left, as if expanses fraught
And only he who knows aright
an exit lies
in what is dark, that white
(that ice can so distort
they’re pictured by the eye)
against his instinct, swims away
towards the dark sees day again.
There is, once
a small habit stirs, or by
a word that changes
meaning, a chance, though stray,
getting out. That he sees day again.
It’s late in
coming. It had far to go.
There is no
name for it but it’s called grief.
fist is no more than a frail sheaf
fingerbones – it’s hard to know
properly. And very few
can view their
weakness as a strong safe lair.
One stands on
some huge Gustav Adolf square
oneself forsaken. It’s hard too
to cross a
square like that. A hand that lies
always empty. And a cage
where no bird’s
ever lived can easily
confusion. By what right do we
freedom that by nature, stage
would loosen cautiously all ties?