The News

Oh my God everything 
is happening!

Ruins

The columns like half melted candlesticks 
With setting sunlight flicker, glow and drip, 
Growing slowly shorter until one quick,
Cold gust snuffs out the flames upon their wicks. 

The wax congeals in nearly shapeless bricks 
Around their bases; clouds of smoke eclipse 
The moon and stars; and statues by a trick 
Of shadows stir and part their frozen lips. 

Ex-Delivery Boy

I heard a motorcycle’s roar 
Diminish differently 
The night I heard the Lord had ordered
Meat Loaf at the feast. 

Obstacles

Staring at the ceiling — 
The constellations wheeling 
Past the plaster. 

Daffodils

Like a big brass band, 
Their trumpets started jumping 
In a blast of wind. 

Spirit Level

The statues in the Fields of Grammary, 

The coffins, too, are precious porphyry, 
And glitter on their pedestals at night, 
Or in their niches, seen by candlelight. 

Whose masks they wear, or slowly mouldering bones 
They cradle, are less conscious than the stone, 
And day and night, the sunshine and the rain, 
Alone or not, to them is all the same. 

Anatomical Model

The fake skeleton 
Had adopted the classic 
Brazen hussy stare.