Stephen Robertson

Slanting Lines

Concordance

This concordance provides an index to every word in the poems, excluding a list of common "stopwords".  It may be useful in finding a half-remembered poem, and perhaps in looking at the usage of words in the poems as a whole.  It will be readable only on a large screen.

L

F.B.
L // // london clay, blackened, arsenic // // railings, pointing, do
fter // // producing six of us.  // //
L -shaped the house; enclosed within its arms // // a walled garden, l
(Girton student 1880s) // // builds a
lab in her garden // // in Reigate, on her way to // // recognition,
irton College 1913).  // // The Reigate
lab , of course // // has a source // // of pure water: a still.  //
ps // // carefully cut and glued.  And
labelled the front— // // Nails: tacks, panel pins, ovals and round;
/ Emily Thornberry’s // // photo gives
Labour a // // cardiovascular // // seismic event.  // //
n set fire to // // the produce of our
labours .  // // A box or holly root, smouldering slowly, // // will b
st // // please press one; for love’s
labour’s lost // // press two; or three for cymbelline; // // the me
unk // // or (better) by the real rope-
ladder , which // // we can then haul up behind us, ready // // to de
inds bowling through trees // // fruit-
laden boughs bent to earth // // apples in the grass // //
Troubled waters // // The good
Lady Lumley is pondering glumly.  “I // // need a new project to keep
take her place in service to // // The
Lady of Shalott.  // // Working all day at her loom, // // Her mistre
this cabbage-bed— // // She was once a
lady’s maid // // In gracious, towered Camelot.  // // Then, as winds
The
Lady’s Maid // // Under a gray and lowering sky // // The fields tha
toes.  Across the river // // lies the
lagoon , a field flooded and then left // // to the encroaching mud. 
Bastille; Ormeaux on Rioja; Ormeaux on
Lagoon // // taps; pipes // // One to one // // You are here // //
/ // it’s Jan, not June.  // // A blue
lagoon , // // the deep blue sky.  // // The crescent moon // // some
// The lino on the hall floor had been
laid // // in nineteen thirty three, the newsprint said.  // // The p
halott?  // // She who hath this garden
laid // // —Nurturing the wayward seed, // // Planting out this cabb
years, decades, centuries // // have I
lain upon this sandy seafloor?  // // I cannot now recall.  // // Up t
wide sea // // close forest // // by
lake and stream // // by forest and moor // // from sea to mountain
ea // // swirling stream // // smooth
lake // // dense forest // // rough moor // // million-year moor //
// // Holiday cottage, the edge of the
Lake District— // // family wanting to rest and recuperate.  // // Sk
row stream // // open moor // // deep
lake // // high mountain // // wide sea // // close forest // // b
nging sea // // blue sea // // silver
lake // // purple moor // // green forest // // clear stream // //
moor // // sharp mountain // // still
lake // // resting lake // // rustling forest // // tumbling mounta
untain // // still lake // // resting
lake // // rustling forest // // tumbling mountain // // running st
limb // // brings us to a hidden jewel
lake , // // soup-spoon-shaped, still half-covered // // in slowly me
Emerald
Lake // // The winding trails // // through forests waking to the sp
llion-year sea // // ten-thousand-year
lake // // thousand-year stream // // narrow stream // // open moor
t away, a sheep, cowering // // —and a
lamb , sensing danger // // suckling.  // // On the other // // the s
ion // // by tying beta up with mu and
lambda .  // // I can’t see clearly:  I’ll need to wander // // some w
l shapes and sizes of New Yorkers, like
lambs .  It is a memory that Judith treasures for the rest of her life.
s way across the floor.  // // From the
lamp on the landing it’s spilling, seeping // // under the door, //
mmer spin— // // and liked a lass from
Lancashire ; // // so milk-white was her skin.  // // In Cheddar Gorge
singing on his way // // Rode bold Sir
Lancelot .  // // Years have passed.  The winter’s chill // // Lies fa
t sail // // and our ship not far from
land // // (Navigation was always a difficult art, // // Though with
ramsbergen // // conurbations; drained
land // // One to three hundred and sixteen thousand eight hundred: 
inter’s chill // // Lies fast upon the
land so ill.  // // Seldom now the skylark’s trill; // // No longer d
ich I’m caught.  // // But through this
land , this country I must go— // // I’d paint it for you if I had the
must survive; // // It’s through this
land , this country that I go.  // // It’s likely different from the on
/ // stumble, fall heavily forward and
land with my // // shin on a knife-edge of rock that protrudes from t
the floor.  // // From the lamp on the
landing it’s spilling, seeping // // under the door, // // sending d
Landing light // // Under the door the glow is peeking, // // feelin
but little // // across so many alien
lands and seas // // some people have some nasty new disease.  // //
// I cannot now recall.  // // On the
lands bordering the Mediterranean, // // empires rise and fall.  Batt
or, // // a motorcycle coursing up the
lane .  // // Night-time noises permeate the air // // with voices hum
just slipped away.  // // What country
lanes or city streets— // // and who were my companions, pray?  // //
nce of night, // // no words, no human
language in my ear, // // no voices in the almost-silence that I hear
h displayed, // // each model posed in
languid attitude, // // in birthday suit and little else arrayed?  //
r a shell // // whose music makes your
languid pulses race: // // fall, fall into the writer’s well-cast spe
// // app, coy sale.  // // Aye, cops
lap // // a clay pope’s // // soapy place.  // // So apply, ace:  //
armth of the fire, // // listen to the
lapping of the water, // // and gaze into space.  // // We have the s
/ // Wi-fi café.  Send a letter.  // //
Laptop , plug in power socket.  // // Click to send.  // // I love you.
ind a swirling wake.  // // Nearer, the
lapwings forage up the beach.  // // At water’s edge the oyster-catche
prehend the universe // // both in the
large and in the small, // // to learn (for better or for worse) //
; // // Screws: small, size 6, size 8,
large .  // // Beside it stands another of much later age: // // a pla
but fire).  // // See this: // // the
large , dilapidated country house // // that is my mother’s next big v
on the first floor front // // with a
large window.  From our bed // // we could see the tops of // // the
ies in boxes, jars and tins: // // the
larger bolts and nuts and washers, // // flooring nails, staples, cup
el looking-glass that will never show a
lass // // As comely or as kindly or as young as what she was!) // /
/ for a summer spin— // // and liked a
lass from Lancashire; // // so milk-white was her skin.  // // In Che
// // that while the past // // will
last and last, // // the future is fast disappearing.  // //
ed // // while the long night’s images
last , // // but notched on the stick // // as the day slides into th
he mist.  // // The long night’s images
last .  // // But now the light is fading // // as the day slides into
to drain // // away from you, in those
last days of pain, // // another summer, home in Camberwell.  // // B
ever.  The fire once begun // // would
last for days and days.  Each morning I came down, // // expecting to
permanence the rule.  // // Change will
last forever.  // // At intervals along the south horizon // // conta
half in half out, I’m sure // // it’ll
last forever, the light that’s leaking // // under the door.  // //
/ embers warm // // flames gone // //
last glow // // embers warm // // fading now // // last glow // //
// embers warm // // fading now // //
last glow // // tiny light // // fading now // // dark night // //
d when we parted, did we say // // our
last goodbyes, or maybe they // // just slipped away— // // I cannot
e a tube inside a tube // // —only the
last lives there.  // // An inflated bulb to hold // // the other two
of grey— // // the colours that I saw
last night // // just slipped away.  // // Through passages or corrid
longings with you, // // and could the
last person to alight please switch off the lights.  // // This depart
last post has been sounded.  // // The
last post has been collected.  // // The last word has been had.  // /
this is the end of the line.  // // The
last post has been sounded.  // // The last post has been collected.  /
at some acute, unmeasured angle.  // //
Last September, meeting you.  // // The world looks different now.  //
ant has closed, // // and that was the
last syllabub of recorded time.  // // From the bottom of the barrel /
hat while the past // // will last and
last , // // the future is fast disappearing.  // //
rotest, but to small // // effect.  At
last we felt we had to call // // a halt to worry, and agreed to sell
ast post has been collected.  // // The
last word has been had.  // // Nothing remains // // but the fuzzy en
n places, // // crested by the fuzz of
last year’s growth, // // looks like a great sea-crag in miniature, /
reat Michelangelo // // makes his work
lasting by carving in stone— // // me, I’m not looking for such immor
// // and built a roaring blaze.  Then
late into the night // // I fed it all the bits that it had missed:  /
// // Beside it stands another of much
later age: // // a plastic chest with small, clear plastic drawers //
, move to Camberwell.  // // (Two weeks
later , British Rail’s plans // // were scrapped and redesigned.  The
ree so much earlier.  // // Later, much
later , I limp into harbour.  My // // family playing, completely obli
deep bay windows that // // adorn most
later London terraced fronts.  // // One of a block of four, it had be
rough the scree so much earlier.  // //
Later , much later, I limp into harbour.  My // // family playing, com
Iken Hall // //
Later , my mother will describe the house itself // // as ugly.  No su
// In north Africa, D is killed.  // //
Later , one of the lodgers— // // Polish serviceman and refugee— // /
// // or down to earth.  // // Seconds
later , over the drumming rain, // // a sharp wall of sound.  // // La
Emily visits.  // // At home, two days
later , // // she says to her dad // // “Judith is a painter, isn’t s
n, // // a sharp wall of sound.  // //
Later still, after the storm has passed // // lie back on the wet bea
dged, blots out the setting sun.  // //
Later , the clouds amass: // // watch now: if you blink you will miss
dows and plates // // on the shelves. 
Later , the local rumour states // // that the train is carrying nucle
Or was it // // not until seven years
later , the year that her first // // grandchild arrived?  I can’t qui
s // // (or Bunch of Hooligans) // //
later to enrol, when they come to Paris // // Manuel de Falla and Igo
down— // // you must be nimble.  // //
Later we discover // // that that was just a sideshow: all the while
emory we needed.  // // So three months
later , we met again // // on a Suffolk shingle beach.  // // In Novem
why people have // // funeral pyres.)
Later we scatter the ashes // // in a wild part of the old South Lond
upon my face.  // // Twenty three years
later , when my mother died // // we had the proper formal funeral.  //
Sharpness // // The
latest growths are long and barbed, // // reaching out to colonise th
d’s tongue.  Why is it that // // this
latter -day fruit so often disappoints?  // // Did I just dream the tas
ss-cross checks and grids and patterned
lattices of life // // through glasses, darkly.  // // —A fragment, f
// // The wonder is that you can still
laugh .  // //
rly-five-year-old Colin // // needed a
lavatory , and I had to leave the fire for a while // // to take him t
n supports for an old // // high-level
lavatory cistern, wonderfully // // ornate.  A pump and valves from a
// // One to five million:  Gulf of St
Lawrence // // Shickshock Mountains; Shippegan Island; Cape Sable //
knock on the bonce.  // // For sure my
laws must // // have forever been lost // // if the apple had chosen
se pay cap, // // O palace spy.  // //
Lay pop case // // plea as copy.  // // Ape calypso // // place, so
port // // Turns out† that the seventh
layer consists mostly of ones that do not exist // // but need‡ to be
en have proper names.  // // The eighth
layer has not been started yet, so the only thing to do about // // i
e is sparse, but every second period or
layer , // // like the bard from Japan whose verses never would scan,
warm enough to melt // // the topmost
layer .  The frost returns // // to make a crust.  The next two months
e let each thread unroll behind, // //
laying down the past— // // until the day, just nine months gone, //
plain, excavates one bank // // as it
lays down the other, // // switching favours at each turn.  // // (St
is clear.  This formulation // // both
lays the problem out and then reveals // // the parts of a solution. 
hone wires through the pane // // loop
lazily along and then // // greet each pole like a jumping jack.  //
// The quick brown fox jumps over the
lazy dog // //
/ // You dance to my tune, // // I’ll
lead .”  But come June // // it turns out she has feet of clay.  // //
roof, the ridgetiles, the leaves in the
leaded gully.  // // The street between the houses, the streetlight, /
a half before Columbus.  // // He is a
leader of Flemish weavers, pointing the rest // // towards their majo
s, buzzers, plugs // // and connecting
leads .  Another pair // // of brackets, this time for a wooden curtai
be thirty years.  A winding path // //
leads from the glazed back door // // through box and holly grown to
.  // // Beyond the scree the open path
leads on, // // a gentler walk, to bare bleak Malham Tarn.  // // The
live dish dried meat floss stir fries a
leaf mustard.  // // The small bowl of wedding reception stews bean bu
// it’ll last forever, the light that’s
leaking // // under the door.  // //
s; // // two taps; one loo // // in a
lean -to out the back.  // // On the cornices // // a hundred years of
// the room we glimpse inside.  A woman
leans // // upon a table in the window, looks // // out into sunligh
or was I pulled or pushed?  // // Did I
leap a chasm, ford a raging torrent, // // get rolled over by an aval
s creep // // move apart // // flames
leap // // flames creep // // growing bright // // flames leap //
eep // // growing bright // // flames
leap // // sparks take flight // // growing bright // // throw on t
uman, animal, machine.  // // An owl, a
leaping fish, a fox afar— // // night-time noises permeate the air.  /
four; // // five othello; six for king
lear ; // // seven hamlet; eight macbeth; nine // // for any other ch
hat moves us all.  // // From me you’ll
learn before a book.  // // Don’t waste your time on wild boar’s head.
n the large and in the small, // // to
learn (for better or for worse) // // what moves us all.  // // From
// // Five days after Charlie Hebdo, I
learn // // that something is growing at the tail end of my colon:  //
// // tried to ignore // // tried to
learn // // tried to live // // tried to love // // tried to make /
ong after his colours have gone; // //
learning his lesson, the great Michelangelo // // makes his work last
e lived and loved and gained // // and
learnt and gave and lost, // // we let each thread unroll behind, //
eems a poor // // fit for me, it is at
least a Fire.  // // The others too I love—Earth, Water, Air—but Fire
se— // // until the following night at
least .  // // Odysseus' sirens, of course // // can offer no such mes
// following, if not a line, // // at
least some vague direction.  // // Once in a while, though, they seem
efract // // The one before it into at
least two.  // //
ps to reach the valley floor— // // to
leave behind, for now, the wilder moor.  // // The treasures to be fou
sals—these as well.  // // But we shall
leave such counterpoints behind us: // // time will tell.  // // Thos
// // needed a lavatory, and I had to
leave the fire for a while // // to take him to the house.  // // I a
orially // // squeeze the juice // //
leave the pith and pips.  // // Papaya, melon: // // pole-to-pole //
/ // Rough softness is too big, // //
leaves for another home.  // // Another rough softness.  // // Can thi
r?  // // The roof, the ridgetiles, the
leaves in the leaded gully.  // // The street between the houses, the
ng on, // // trees bending, dark green
leaves showing // // their lighter backs, a few edging // // towards
af trees with twisted limbs // // shed
leaves with perfect sculpted edges.  // // A bramble sends great arcin
oin // // with the neighbouring block,
leaving a row of nine.  // // In nineteen sixty nine the house was lit
us, then flips away, // // dives deep,
leaving behind a swirling wake.  // // Nearer, the lapwings forage up
/ // carve out sections of bank // //
leaving sharp cliffs of compacted mud.  // // Evening.  A great dark c
oad.  The pavements // // curl around,
leaving two small raised triangles // // of city herbage in city clag
arth, // // time lives in fire, // //
leaving us the water and the air.  // //
is and Antithesis debate.  // // In the
lecture room // // His voice is lively, gestures wide— // // there i
edges // // Skinny rats sniff out the
ledges , // // While between the stream-floor ridges // // Now a bott
// // Along the muddy margins, in the
lee // // of the sea-wall, around the bladder-wrack, // // long-legg
y need some clipping, shortening // //
left alone they easily win—but // // there was an old man called Mich
// just so // // above, below, // //
left and right.  // // Focus in, // // each ray // // trapped on its
the light just so // // above, below,
left and right, // // focus in each ray.  // // Trapped on its way fr
with dying breath, // // a swan-song,
left behind for us to ponder, // // in any season.  // //
toothpaste // // that the saxophonist
left behind.  // // This is the heat-death of the universe; // // the
and the air?  // // The glistening mud
left by the ebb-tide.  // // The moored boat listing on the mudflat.  /
// // Subjective/objective // // Tap
left open.  // // Oh bugger!  // // The other side // // // What was
// below and to the right.  And rising
left // // the Cape Cod house’s painted clapboard side.  // // At cen
efore giving me an earful.  // // To my
left , the foraging ground: a smooth bank of mud // // slopes up from
rlier era of the house’s existence.  We
left the room unpainted for the best part of the 22 years we lived the
at her loom, // // Her mistress never
left the womb // // That was the fastness of her room.  // // Only th
es the lagoon, a field flooded and then
left // // to the encroaching mud.  On the far bank // // of the nex
within its arms // // a walled garden,
left untended // // for maybe thirty years.  A winding path // // le
fact of life, a death, // // what was
left was not so much a void // // as that which in my London childhoo
colder clime, // // with no arms, one
leg , no tail, but raised high, // // and head thrown back, I can danc
alise the pain is subsiding, the // //
leg was not broken, and after a while I can // // think of resuming m
, around the bladder-wrack, // // long-
legged waders scutter, scavenge, seek // // their winter sustenance. 
some forty years ago.  // // One of the
legs had rotted half away.  // // But a new piece of four by two turne
wn and stretch // // blue skies // //
legs itch // // must get on // // first scratch // // clothes on //
ffield ties become more tenuous, // //
legs weaken, and isolation palls.  // // One more great change, one mo
illy came.  // // They lingered long in
Leicestershire ; // // red was the evening sky.  // // By Derby town t
/ // twist to separate.  // // Orange,
lemon , lime: // // equatorially // // squeeze the juice // // leave
and called “Post-Balzac”.  It is a full-
length bronze cape, upright and rounded as if on the shoulders of its
navy blue or fawn, // // three-quarter
length , or maybe short, // // patch pockets (useless for cold hands),
um outside Amsterdam.  The Hermitage in
Leningrad in Soviet days.  Kettle’s Yard in Cambridge when it was stil
colours have gone; // // learning his
lesson , the great Michelangelo // // makes his work lasting by carvin
and learnt and gave and lost, // // we
let each thread unroll behind, // // laying down the past— // // unt
Vagrant monosyllables // //
Let he who is without zen… but there is a multitude of zens.  The zens
ng embers // // throw on timber // //
let it burn // // glowing embers // // smoulder down // // let it b
wing embers // // smoulder down // //
let it burn // // warm as toast // // smoulder down // // potatoes
row the canopy too // // to the winds,
let it whirl away // // into the encroaching dark.  // // Feel the ea
nt moon // // from cold immune.  // //
Let snow lie, // // it’s Jan, not June.  // // A blue lagoon, // //
// to earth, as far away as it will go. 
Let the browns // // and reds and golds replace the greens.  Now throw
water return // // to the dry ground. 
Let the cooling dark // // settle around and about, under and over.  /
busily foraging across the bank // //
lets me get much closer // // before giving me an earful.  // // To m
Stages // // Hanging garden.  Send a
letter .  // // Fresh clay tablet, stylus, scribe.  // // Entrust to me
/ I love you.  // // Wi-fi café.  Send a
letter .  // // Laptop, plug in power socket.  // // Click to send.  //
I love you.  // // Flowing Nile.  Send a
letter .  // // New papyrus, brush and ink.  // // Command a messenger.
love you.  // // Papered bedsit.  Send a
letter .  // // Pad of paper, ballpoint pen.  // // Find a stamp, stree
e you.  // // Draughty hall.  Now send a
letter .  // // Parchment, new quill pen, and ink.  // // Employ a mess
e you.  // // Curtained parlour.  Send a
letter .  // // Scented paper, dip-pen, ink.  // // Branch post office,
e.  Never fill the kettle above the MAX
level and ensure that it is always above the MIN level. // //
o or three metres above // // mean sea
level .  // // And where’s that, when it’s at home?  // // It’s a level
n their cups.  Thomas certainly did his
level best // // to drink himself to death.  But for these falls, //
// Place the cordless base on a
level firm surface. // // Where ever possible fill the ket
st-iron supports for an old // // high-
level lavatory cistern, wonderfully // // ornate.  A pump and valves
amount of water can be measured by the
level mark on the outside of the kettle.  Never fill the kettle above
n // // on its way down.  // // It’s a
level measured // // a century ago and // // three hundred and forty
ensure that it is always above the MIN
level . // // Only fill the kettle with the amount of water
that, when it’s at home?  // // It’s a
level that the tide rushes past // // on its way up and again // //
banked-up track // // behind the wall,
level with the top, // // running the gauntlet of the winter storm.  /
omfort’s as rotten // // as stealing a
library book.  // // Five of our cushions are missing.  // // How can
ked trout, wevet, bone, calamine // //
lichen , brinjal, radicchio, citron, calluna // // brassica, hay, pelt
heather and the bracken, the moss, the
lichen , // // the cropped grass, the sheep- and rabbit-droppings, //
// // Always make sure that the
lid is properly firmly closed. // // Place the kettle on t
rings.  // // The jars hang from their
lids , nailed to // // the shelf above.  The boxes and tins are stacke
y settled down // // on purple sage to
lie .  // // A Cheshire cat accosted them, // // then walked his wild
he blind.  // // A storm is raging as I
lie abed, // // whipped wide awake by what the thunder said.  // // R
sky // // The fields that by the river
lie // // Are rough and unkempt.  Buzzards fly // // Above the weedy
till, after the storm has passed // //
lie back on the wet beach // // and watch the stars emerge.  // // Sh
/ // from cold immune.  // // Let snow
lie , // // it’s Jan, not June.  // // A blue lagoon, // // the deep
time.  // // Now is the time // // to
lie on the earth, // // smell the air, // // feel the warmth of the
The
Liedera rondeau // // In any season, some young man will wander // /
es venture.  // // Beyond the fir-trees
lies // // a bracken-covered heath.  The summer fronds // // rise fa
have passed.  The winter’s chill // //
Lies fast upon the land so ill.  // // Seldom now the skylark’s trill;
// // Maybe, for some, the resolution
lies // // in their cups.  Thomas certainly did his level best // //
n we doubt // // that somewhere herein
lies some deep philosophy?  // // Voices, ipods, phones speak out— //
ween our toes.  Across the river // //
lies the lagoon, a field flooded and then left // // to the encroachi
ell?  // // This painting has a private
life .  // //
at Judith treasures for the rest of her
life . // //
on // // // After that single fact of
life , a death, // // what was left was not so much a void // // as t
ot looking for such immortality, // //
life after death would not be to my taste; // // rather, look forward
s us of so much we’ll never see.  // //
Life and death are two, and now are one: // // no perfectability exce
the different dittoes must compete for
life .  // // Another billion random changes: all // // —or almost all
At some more ordered // // stage of my
life (certainly long before // // the children arrived) I divided eac
// // How little I really know of your
life !  // // From the moment almost a half-century ago // // when I f
way.  // // I hear you say, // // “But
life is for the living, do not kill // // another day.”  // // And ye
ext door: // // someone else’s fragile
life is there.  // //
ext door: // // someone else’s fragile
life is there.  // // Each new doctor asks the same once more, // //
ll was well; // // the end, the moment
life just seemed to drain // // away from you, in those last days of
/ Some earlier occasion when // // our
life -lines must have crossed, // // some passing chance of might-have
Notes to a
life // // Milk // // Sausages or chops // // Veg—broccoli?  // //
ps which, added up, construct // // my
life .  // // Most of the steps are small, // // following, if not a l
// // It’s been too far south all its
life : // // not cancer, but capricorn.  // // Catheter // // // Obj
I was told: it looks clear.  // // So
life should now appear // // as it did a month gone, // // BC (Befor
any season.  // // The author, he whose
life the fates would squander— // // such richness in his music did h
cks and grids and patterned lattices of
life // // through glasses, darkly.  // // —A fragment, formulated fo
Fragments of a
life // // We walked across England, once.  If you follow the w
posterity speaks; // // Joyce has his
Liffey whose recirculation keeps // // Finnegan going (despite it’s h
gentle.  // // Soft digits hold softly,
lift softly // // place softly against another softness // // and so
g // // as the rising waters reach and
lift them // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // echoes of the dis
Light and shadow // // The rule: we should not // // begin unwrappi
forever?  // // Empty again, in harsher
light .  // // Another softness, giant but gentle.  // // Soft digits h
ward, sun behind us, low, // // yellow
light -beams almost horizontal; // // East Hills aglow.  // // Winds m
rk night // // dream deep // // faint
light // // bird sings // // growing bright // // gadget pings //
e night // // I would’ve turned on the
light ...  // // But now no more— // // your gentle snore // // puts
r sand and rock // // in filtered blue
light , // // carrying hardness with it.  // // Sometimes softness she
imity, blazer, babouche // // borrowed
light , dimpse, mizzle, skylight // // ammonite, mahogany, archive //
against // // the dying // // of the
light .  Do not // // go gentle into that good night. // // … and one
/ // begin unwrapping till it’s // //
light enough to see.  // // Below the bulges, // // not yet deciphera
fading now // // last glow // // tiny
light // // fading now // // dark night // //
// Through passages or corridors // //
light -footed did I make my way?  // // Across what carpets, rugs or fl
e no crystal ball, no glass.  // // The
light has all gone, now.  // //
s are low and spitting rain.  // // The
light is dimming now.  // // Further north the rain teems down // //
night’s images last.  // // But now the
light is fading // // as the day slides into the mist.  // // Morning
of an uncompleted day.  // // Not until
light is fading // // has the interval passed by.  // // An uncomplet
ver Don and flood the plain.  // // The
light is fading now.  // // Politicians on the stump // // make promi
inspired by our local Trump.  // // The
light is failing now.  // // The surgeons trying to cut us off // //
like butchers working rough.  // // The
light is going now.  // // How will these transient trials pass?  // /
Sunburn // // Sonnet // // Bend the
light // // just so // // above, below, // // left and right.  // /
and burn.  // // Tanka // // Bend the
light just so // // above, below, left and right, // // focus in eac
in the dark edges beyond the flickering
light .  // // Nearly-five-year-old Colin // // needed a lavatory, and
e dark side of the earth, // // in the
light of a fire, // // and faint starlight from space // // reflecte
paraffin stove // // casts patterns of
light on the // // high bedroom ceiling.  // //
moves north against the fading evening
light .  // // Slanting lines are forming, breaking, forming // // ord
Hopper Chōka // // Yellow neon
light // // spilling through plate-glass windows // // across the pa
I’m sure // // it’ll last forever, the
light that’s leaking // // under the door.  // //
re?  // // Or is it just the clarity of
light , the glowing // // grass and trees outside her window, warming
out above, // // buds into the waxing
light , the spring rain.  Throw open // // the fire-coloured temptation
k night // // strike match // // tiny
light // // twigs catch // // strike match // // flame unfurls //
Landing
light // // Under the door the glow is peeking, // // feeling its wa
dark green leaves showing // // their
lighter backs, a few edging // // towards the brown.  // // Autumn fr
r // // // Blitz.  The heavy bombers,
lighter now, // // are droning back towards their bases, // // and f
nted.  // // No electricity— // // gas
lighting from the thirties; // // two taps; one loo // // in a lean-
e darknesses // // more storms, gales,
lightning bolts // // more days of sun or rain or passing cloud // /
d, // // temple columns spaced, // //
lightning rods earthed.  // // On the dark side of the earth, // // i
e mounted // // battery box, switches,
lights , buzzers, plugs // // and connecting leads.  Another pair //
Pay newsagent // // Bulbs for kitchen
lights —CS 60W screw???—check first // // Cash m/c // // Washing //
person to alight please switch off the
lights .  // // This departure has arrived.  // // The locomotive will
// // Nigel Farrage // // has a mouth
like a garage— // // he opens it ever so wide // // and you can see
uzz of last year’s growth, // // looks
like a great sea-crag in miniature, // // a tumbling precipice of roc
y along and then // // greet each pole
like a jumping jack.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  /
ople in evening dress, top hats and the
like , appropriate to some earlier era of the house’s existence.  We le
// our sense of part and whole, netsuke-
like .  // // Bird and fish are two, and now are one: // // no perfect
from continental flow // // seem more
like butchers working rough.  // // The light is going now.  // // How
o, // // spirals round itself, trumpet-
like .  // // Can this go on forever?  // // Softness grows still, fade
ery beautiful.  // // What does it look
like from the inside?  // // See that blue-green ball of stuff?  // //
ands), // // thick felted wool, a monk-
like hood— // // and with (the most important thing) // // those woo
r, all shapes and sizes of New Yorkers,
like lambs.  It is a memory that Judith treasures for the rest of her
// // Words go // // from mind // //
like snow.  // // A line // // to show // // can’t find, // // no. 
t really want // // to kill me.  // //
Like the asteroid // // barrelling onwards, to wipe us out in // //
ut every second period or layer, // //
like the bard from Japan whose verses never would scan, adds an extra
ed arch // // piercing the wall, built
like the house // // of weathered Cotswold stone.  // // The box and
n the beginning I am small and playful,
like the wind.  // // It changes direction from minute to minute; //
pple said // // // // Of course we’d
like to understand // // the stars and planets overhead // // as wel
er // // for a summer spin— // // and
liked a lass from Lancashire; // // so milk-white was her skin.  // /
That reality in which I live // // is
likely different from the one you know.  // // It is the space in whic
nd, this country that I go.  // // It’s
likely different from the one you know: // // to you, this is a dream
n three hours now.  // // When are they
likely to send out a search party?  // // Probably not until well afte
// gnarled broadleaf trees with twisted
limbs // // shed leaves with perfect sculpted edges.  // // A bramble
wist to separate.  // // Orange, lemon,
lime : // // equatorially // // squeeze the juice // // leave the pi
Limerick // // There was an old Fellow of Girton // // who always ma
this will help to reduce the amount of
limescale that builds up on the filter. // // The amount o
lham Cove, // // with fields below and
limestone crags above; // // descend the steps to reach the valley fl
care not a tittle.  // // Many die—thus
limiting their needs.  // // This time, the bug’s not spread by rats a
ch earlier.  // // Later, much later, I
limp into harbour.  My // // family playing, completely oblivious.  //
be good.  // // Nevertheless I draw the
line // // at dropping onto Isaac’s head.  // // His inspiration is n
s are small, // // following, if not a
line , // // at least some vague direction.  // // Once in a while, th
Circle
line // // Board anywhere // //
end of the street and right, // // the
line bridges over the road.) Sometimes at night, // // a heavy goods
against the sky.  // // Ahead, another
line , // // flat and sharp and natural too: // // pale sky encounter
/ I’ll need a ton of words to fill each
line from side to side, // // verbosely quite enough to float or sink
the paper onto its side and write each
line // // in something approaching or aping the style of that wonder
is just the timing that disturbs.  The
line // // mostly carries suburban trains; more rarely, // // carria
ntle slope // // towards the river.  A
line of ancient oaks // // (one blasted trunk is hollow through, and
the charts // // redrawn).  // // The
line of pebble-dunes protects // // a calmer green oasis, band of sal
the street // // a tee-junction, and a
line of sight // // along a tree-lined road into the distance.  // //
e call Japan: // // against the sky, a
line of those same firs // // looks vaguely oriental.  // // Since th
ng— // // how in hell did he evade the
line ?  // // Oh bugger!  Now we have to get away.  // //
Long ago // // The railway
line passes near.  // // After the engine’s noisy roar, // // coaches
r this year // // of celebration—every
line // // the Bard created for the stage // // by the best actors o
are the buffers, this is the end of the
line .  // // The last post has been sounded.  // // The last post has
// // will find in all the books that
line the shelves, // // and close to home as well: they too can be //
llel lines // // As you stare down the
line till you squint // // with the cold seeping into each joint, //
// from mind // // like snow.  // // A
line // // to show // // can’t find, // // no.  // //
ard, // // below the belt and over the
line .  // // What’s in a name?  // // It’s been too far south all its
les would be // // long enough for any
line .  // // With a terse verse form, you see, // // I can get along
and a line of sight // // along a tree-
lined road into the distance.  // //
dens, full of trees // // along a tree-
lined road into the distance.  // // The first bedroom I had to myself
eat arcing shoots, // // strong curves
lined with jagged thorns, // // seeking new ground to conquer.  // //
the sharp senses, nature has many sharp
lines .  // //
// strung around precise radial anchor
lines .  // // Across the channel, tidal creeks // // meandering throu
s // // —the kind you sometimes see in
lines across // // the Suffolk countryside, each tall bare trunk //
und.  // // The field is ready now, the
lines are drawn.  // // Whichever wins, whichever meets defeat, // //
e fading evening light.  // // Slanting
lines are forming, breaking, forming // // ordered chaos with a rauco
Parallel
lines // // As you stare down the line till you squint // // with th
suggest // // just three alliterative
lines —at best // // a semi-stanza—and then to cease?  It seems // //
/ Yes, with fuel to burn.  // // If the
lines be blurred just right, // // You may go there with your eyesigh
// // ranking, taking logs and drawing
lines .  // // Chomsky looked for deeper motivation // // underneath t
just nine months gone, // // when both
lines crossed an edge, // // and two seemed to twist into one, // //
s // // in lop-sided vees and slanting
lines , // // dark against the sky.  // // Ahead, another line, // //
Sharp
lines // // High overhead, the geese are flying out // // on their t
e earlier occasion when // // our life-
lines must have crossed, // // some passing chance of might-have-been
// more curlews, more ragged, slanting
lines of geese // // more travels, journeys, voyages, expeditions //
// // enough, I suppose.  // // Battle
lines // // // // // // // // Somewhere deep down in my abysmal
a-winds bring // // straining at their
lines .  The bows face seaward // // Hear the marsh-birds calling //
the same period games // // allow the
lines to peter out // // and stop. // // † as we step through the do
and flying sparks.  // // Grass on the
lineside banks is marked // // with smears of fires, burnt and black.
// then to Caerphilly came.  // // They
lingered long in Leicestershire; // // red was the evening sky.  // /
he sea-winds bring // // makes another
lingering turn, begins // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // retr
// a hole to build the Channel Tunnel
link .  // // A monstrous hole, quite big enough to eat // // the park
hey care?  // // They rattle round, and
link , and split, and fight.  // // No voices in the almost-silence tha
n // // to make the beta, gamma, delta
link . // // 1 back: frustration // // Damn—I had forgotten // // t
// // recognition, fellowships // // (
Linnean Society 1904, // // Girton College 1913).  // // The Reigate
ngs, // // paint from woodwork, // //
lino from floors.  // // (Under the lino, newspaper // // dated 1933
// lino from floors.  // // (Under the
lino , newspaper // // dated 1933 // // the year Hitler came to power
th open fires the only heat.  // // The
lino on the hall floor had been laid // // in nineteen thirty three,
really.  // // Objective // // Yellow
liquid flows.  // // Subjective/objective // // Tap left open.  // //
verses never would scan, adds an extra
list .  // // As we* reach the sixth and seventh periods, short of hori
† as we step through the double-starred
list of the actinoids // // ‡ by means of reactors or colliders or ot
upon the trees outside…  // // I try to
listen , but my musing strays.  // // His voice is lively, gestures wid
ny time or season of the year // // we
listen to Schubert’s Trout Quintet.  // // Listening to Schubert’s Tro
// feel the warmth of the fire, // //
listen to the lapping of the water, // // and gaze into space.  // //
ten to Schubert’s Trout Quintet.  // //
Listening to Schubert’s Trout Quintet // // the slow movement is of c
// of the mudflats and the sandbanks. 
Listing // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // boats are stranded
by the ebb-tide.  // // The moored boat
listing on the mudflat.  // // The salt-marsh, the sedge and the samph
// In nineteen sixty nine the house was
lit // // by gas, with open fires the only heat.  // // The lino on t
// and dark night fell as we built and
lit the fire // // on the dark stones, and planted fireworks // // i
the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-
Lits // // et des Grands Express Européens pass by.  // // In the end
/ // In some far-off place we know but
little // // across so many alien lands and seas // // some people h
he hills ranged all around // // —they
little care.  // // Voices far across the valley sound // // through
y bean curd of boiler, // // Blow up a
little croaker with no result.  // // Fragile crab of incense taste mu
ney is seamless // // and, in truth, a
little dull.  // // From Brussels by local train to Ghent: canals and
d attitude, // // in birthday suit and
little else arrayed?  // // I think he’d add a note to his remark— //
l, only truthful— // // The eye of the
little god, four cornered.  // // Something there is that doesn’t love
Ninety-six and counting // // How
little I really know of your life!  // // From the moment almost a hal
of its space.  // // Two plovers wait a
little longer, // // then follow suit; the oystercatcher // // busi
again.  // // Skirting the back of the
Little Man precipice, // // one final push up the ridge to the pinnac
” // // So the project proceeds with a
little more priming (the // // buy-in from business is not keeping pa
iration— // // that reality in which I
live .  // //
validate or grieve— // // these words
live .  // //
// // // // That reality in which I
live // // is likely different from the one you know.  // // It is th
le, but Piero’s perspective will // //
live on long after his colours have gone; // // learning his lesson,
though, the hollow holds // // a real
live snake, standing up and hissing // // at our approach.  We turn t
e // // tried to learn // // tried to
live // // tried to love // // tried to make // // tried to mend //
d with skeins of wool.  // // And as we
lived and loved and gained // // and learnt and gave and lost, // //
ed for the best part of the 22 years we
lived there, and it wasn’t just because we never got around to it.
kes a worthy guide; // // his voice is
lively , gestures wide.  // // The sun and wind upon the trees outside…
In the lecture room // // His voice is
lively , gestures wide— // // there is much sense in what he says, //
t my musing strays.  // // His voice is
lively , gestures wide.  // // There is much sense in what he says.  //
/ carriages decked in the blue and gold
livery // // of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits // // e
// Our space is the earth, // // time
lives in fire, // // leaving us the water and the air.  // //
ded // // coda to our past // // good
lives , the rainbow spans the sky.  // //
power).  // // Then we get on with our
lives : // // the repainting can wait.  // // I go to work.  // // Jud
ube inside a tube // // —only the last
lives there.  // // An inflated bulb to hold // // the other two in p
ar you say, // // “But life is for the
living , do not kill // // another day.”  // // And yet you stay // /
athers are visited on the sons, even if
living in zen.  // // Gloves are a many-splendoured thing.  Gloves mak
ur shared domain: // // the start, the
lobby of a Greek hotel // // in summer, where we met and all was well
/ // Garden shed // // with a still? 
Local // // excise officer takes to // // dropping by unannounced.  /
s down the street.  // // We joined the
local protest, but to small // // effect.  At last we felt we had to
ates // // on the shelves.  Later, the
local rumour states // // that the train is carrying nuclear waste; a
a little dull.  // // From Brussels by
local train to Ghent: canals and cobbled streets // // and beer and c
e promises-to-go // // inspired by our
local Trump.  // // The light is failing now.  // // The surgeons tryi
Lockdown // // Here’s a first-rate opportunity— // // Isolation for
Locking down too // // down, not up—as in // // facing down the cris
t’s breath // // peignoir, charlotte’s
locks , nancy’s blushes // // drop cloth, slipper satin, worsted // /
// // The locomotive will desist from
locomotion , // // this is our final destination.  // // These are the
This departure has arrived.  // // The
locomotive will desist from locomotion, // // this is our final desti
o-up-two-down // // full of family and
lodgers .  Daughter born // // at the height of the Luftwaffe’s // //
, D is killed.  // // Later, one of the
lodgers — // // Polish serviceman and refugee— // // is worth another
instantiations, // // ranking, taking
logs and drawing lines.  // // Chomsky looked for deeper motivation //
remains // // but the fuzzy end of the
lollipop and the squeezed out tube of toothpaste // // that the saxop
Housepaint // // The depths of south
London , 1969.  // // A small Victorian terrace house // // stuccoed a
London // // // After that single fact of life, a death, // // what
// // in a wild part of the old South
London cemetery.  // // Perhaps I should plant // // some box or holl
much a void // // as that which in my
London childhood // // we’d call a bombsite—desolate but rife // //
F.B.L // //
london clay, blackened, arsenic // // railings, pointing, down pipe,
// // And thus it was.  Just past the
London Eye, // // a bright September day, the river’s edge, // // wi
ppens my old friend is crowned mayor of
London , he // // goes by the rubrik of Boris the Mad.  // // He’d ado
South
London standoff // // An ordinary suburban junction.  // // Narrow si
The second was at the back // // of a
London terrace in a triangle of streets.  // // From the bed the windo
ay windows that // // adorn most later
London terraced fronts.  // // One of a block of four, it had been onc
something new: migrate south // // to
London , two grandchildren, // // and a world to explore.  // // But w
f bridges traversing the Thames here in
London , we’ve // // just thirty three—surely room for one more.  // /
I cannot allow to go answerless.  // //
Lone expedition to conquer the mountaintop.  // // Bottle of water and
ldom now the skylark’s trill; // // No
longer do the people fill // // The wharfs and ways of Camelot.  // /
ging: the ocean // // is bottomless no
longer .  // // I feel something // // never felt before— // // somet
ts, // // broken furniture, shelves no
longer // // serving any useful purpose.  // // The clutter covering
space.  // // Two plovers wait a little
longer , // // then follow suit; the oystercatcher // // busily fora
Norna, or of Rosamunde.  // // Sorrow,
longing , dreams pervade the path // // in any season.  // // The auth
from the thirties; // // two taps; one
loo // // in a lean-to out the back.  // // On the cornices // // a
ital.  // // There were the children to
look after— // // there was no chance for her to follow him.  // // T
is, and // // gets the Red Margaret to
look at the case.  // // “It’s been a fiasco, a drain on our taxes.  T
n there now.  // // Let’s have a closer
look at this one here, // // with a bar across.  Not quite the bigges
ers’ webs among the undergrowth.  // //
Look closely: precise angular spirals // // strung around precise ra
ould not be to my taste; // // rather,
look forward to final oblivion— // // when the time comes, I might ad
g they might be behind or under.  // //
Look inside anything they might be in.  // // Turn the place upside do
ror crack’d from side to side.  // // I
look into the mirror, but it’s cracked // // And won’t be fixed and a
but very beautiful.  // // What does it
look like from the inside?  // // See that blue-green ball of stuff?  /
ugh the mirror’s gloam // // Dared she
look to Camelot.  // // Not until the fateful day // // When, gleamin
the open beach, in rich sea air.  // //
Look up, look up, my love—the sky is calling.  // // Dark shapes are c
beach, in rich sea air.  // // Look up,
look up, my love—the sky is calling.  // // Dark shapes are calling ea
// had windows on two sides.  // // One
looked across to a busy road // // but from my bed I looked out on //
logs and drawing lines.  // // Chomsky
looked for deeper motivation // // underneath their surface combinati
to a busy road // // but from my bed I
looked out on // // a corner of a tree-bordered square.  // // The se
ame // // he chose has cut us off from
looking at // // the focus of her gaze: does he not want // // to te
Random walk // //
Looking backwards, I can see // // mistily, the shape of things:  //
by carving in stone— // // me, I’m not
looking for such immortality, // // life after death would not be to
fairest of them all?  // // (The cruel
looking -glass that will never show a lass // // As comely or as kindl
rnoon in winter, on the ramparts // //
looking seaward, sun behind us, low, // // yellow light-beams almost
man half-turned // // across the rest,
looking with unfocussed eyes // // into the distance down the street.
wards?  // // Yesterday I was told: it
looks clear.  // // So life should now appear // // as it did a month
eptember, meeting you.  // // The world
looks different now.  // //
the fuzz of last year’s growth, // //
looks like a great sea-crag in miniature, // // a tumbling precipice
eans // // upon a table in the window,
looks // // out into sunlight, over grass, towards // // some distan
e sky, a line of those same firs // //
looks vaguely oriental.  // // Since then, of course, the bracken //
Shalott.  // // Working all day at her
loom , // // Her mistress never left the womb // // That was the fast
rest and recuperate.  // // Skiddaw is
looming , inviting explorers—a // // challenge I cannot allow to go an
Telephone wires through the pane // //
loop lazily along and then // // greet each pole like a jumping jack.
ant thing) // // those wooden toggles,
loops of string.  // // I must confess to having owned // // long lon
ation between feeding grounds // // in
lop -sided vees and slanting lines, // // dark against the sky.  // //
/ // // // // shave again // // oh
lord // // take train // // rough grain // // sharp blade // // sh
s very annoying— // // I hope we don’t
lose any more.  // // Three of our cushions are missing.  // // I don’
A cloppy sea // //
Lose pay cap, // // O palace spy.  // // Lay pop case // // plea as
l.  Battles are fought, // // wars are
lost and won.  Did they rage around me // // where I stood for all me
e my laws must // // have forever been
lost // // if the apple had chosen a dunce.  // // // // There rema
—maybe she // // is pensive, dreaming,
lost in reverie.  // // And the artist who is showing us the scene //
please press one; for love’s labour’s
lost // // press two; or three for cymbelline; // // the merry wives
h-birds calling // // in places it has
lost , reoccupation // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // //
shing, splitting, breaking.  // // I am
lost .  The one behind // // will finish me completely // // and for
gloves never did run smooth.  No glove
lost .  // // We have nothing to wear but wear itself.  Without wear or
d gained // // and learnt and gave and
lost , // // we let each thread unroll behind, // // laying down the
ak // // for Suliman, but I am well of
love .  // //
// // Something there is that doesn’t
love a wall.  // // Out flew the web and floated wide; // // The mirr
r // // with flagons, for I am well of
love .  // // Apples may perhaps be comforting // // as any fruit, tho
t least a Fire.  // // The others too I
love —Earth, Water, Air—but Fire // // is something else again.  // //
—for many kinds of loving.  // // Did I
love enough? use every day?  // // Days for seeing you in different w
The well of
love // // // // Raisins are all very well in their place // // —i
the flowers in the hedgerows.  // // We
love the flowers in the hedgerows // // no matter what the season of
ch sea air.  // // Look up, look up, my
love —the sky is calling.  // // Dark shapes are calling each to each: 
me // // with apples, for I am well of
love .  // // The usual translation is not raisins // // but flagons. 
e.  // // How about adding space, time,
love ? // // … three fibs about fibs…  // // One, // // one, // // t
rn // // tried to live // // tried to
love // // tried to make // // tried to mend // // tried to reach /
s, thoughts tragic or tender— // // of
love unfinished or of peaceful earth, // // the mill-girl’s beauty or
, // // the world just so.  // // True
love will germinate and grow, // // all tribulations to displace, //
Fellow of Girton // // who always made
love with his shirt on.  // // Saying “Now that I’m old, // // I do f
socket.  // // Click to send.  // // I
love you.  // //
nk.  // // Employ a messenger.  // // I
love you.  // // Curtained parlour.  Send a letter.  // // Scented pape
k.  // // Command a messenger.  // // I
love you.  // // Draughty hall.  Now send a letter.  // // Parchment, n
.  // // Entrust to messenger.  // // I
love you.  // // Flowing Nile.  Send a letter.  // // New papyrus, brus
anch post office, penny stamp.  // // I
love you.  // // Papered bedsit.  Send a letter.  // // Pad of paper, b
nd a stamp, street-corner box.  // // I
love you.  // // Wi-fi café.  Send a letter.  // // Laptop, plug in pow
ins of wool.  // // And as we lived and
loved and gained // // and learnt and gave and lost, // // we let ea
uum // // —cool!  // // There are some
lovely spirals down there now.  // // Let’s have a closer look at this
r the bridge // // and finding you, my
lover and my friend.  // //
stormy fell // // with her who to her
lover’s side makes haste: // // jump willing into every word-filled w
/ // the soft and sensuous flesh joins
love’s embrace.  // // Mother and child are two, and now are one:  //
e tempest // // please press one; for
love’s labour’s lost // // press two; or three for cymbelline; // //
—or should have been—for many kinds of
loving .  // // Did I love enough? use every day?  // // Days for seei
marshes and the sea.  The sun // // is
low ahead of us, the sky is clear.  // // Across the wood, onto the be
day begins to go // // the clouds are
low and spitting rain.  // // The light is dimming now.  // // Further
illion two hundred and fifty thousand: 
Low Countries // // Gelderland; Glabbeek; Gramsbergen // // conurbat
ds across the park at the back // // a
low embankment carries the railway track.  // // (Down the slope to th
just so.  // // A wingéd dragon, flying
low , // // will seek a human sacrifice, // // far away and long ago.
// // looking seaward, sun behind us,
low , // // yellow light-beams almost horizontal; // // East Hills ag
ar three people sit // // all six eyes
lowered // // in silent contemplation.  // // The rest of the world i
The Lady’s Maid // // Under a gray and
lowering sky // // The fields that by the river lie // // Are rough
powder, tins // // for cocoa or throat
lozenges or metal polish, // // jars for all sorts of jams and pickle
erley ban // // and the Beatles’ first
LP ; // // strangely, though, not sex but fire).  // // See this:  //
the rocks.  // // But me, now, I'm just
lucky .  // //
ughter born // // at the height of the
Luftwaffe’s // // blitz on Sheffield.  // // In north Africa, D is ki
they fought it out.  // // There was a
lull — // // But he was dead: // // had died three hours after his ar
Troubled waters // // The good Lady
Lumley is pondering glumly.  “I // // need a new project to keep me i
/ pour out the blue flame.  // // After
lunch , a walk // // through the summer’s brown bracken // // that co
mountaintop.  // // Bottle of water and
lunch in my haversack.  // // Climb by the obvious route from the vall
eem // // to switch a gear, and take a
lurch // // at some acute, unmeasured angle.  // // Last September, m
figures, clinched before a fall; // //
Lutteurs —they are two, and now are one: // // no perfectability excep
hing wild clouds across the sky, // //
lying abed beneath the cobwebbed rafters, // // warm and dry.  // //
there were many words: // // sitting,
lying all around // // in bags or scattered on the ground // // wait
night has in store.  // // Whether I’m
lying awake or sleeping // // or floating half in half out, I’m sure
It must be, if agony’s evidence.  // //
Lying there wondering whether there’s any chance // // I could attrac
// Did I submit tax form??  // // Check
L’s dob—70 next b/day?  // // Dentist appointment—week of 10th // //