Patient. Fishes swish fast. Silver meals. Legs made for this water. Orange shields. Stand quiet, beak’s ever poised. Their flesh peels Thin, into strips. Eat what still pond yields. Nothing comes here, go further. Make fresh steals. Clever boy, more places. Over fields- Lift high, slow, spread wide. Up in sky, wind feels Light and fresh. Grand, tumbling upwards, wields Glinting beak....
The Circles of Hull
Municipal grave. Writer. He stirs. This town should be familiar to him. Yes, he is the fitting guide, no doubt, For he knew the manner of its sin. Through the gravel he comes, which is cold And wet - to match his quiet miser’s voice. His spectacles are cracked; he looks old. Yet he could have left, this was his choice. “First is Limbo,” says the poet, wryly, Dusting...