Cut grass lies frail: Brief is the breath Mown stalks exhale. Long, long the death It dies in the white hours

Sexual intercourse began In nineteen sixty-three (which was rather late for me)— Between the end of the Chatterley… And the Beatles’ first LP.

You do not come dramatically, with… That rear up with my life between… And dash me butchered down beside… The horses panicking; nor as a cla… Clearly set out to warn what can b…

Is it for now or for always, The world hangs on a stalk? Is it a trick or a trysting—place, The woods we have found to walk? Is it a mirage or miracle,

Strange to know nothing, never to… Of what is true or right or real, But forced to qualify or so I fee… Or Well, it does seem so: Someone must know.

To step over the low wall that div… Road from concrete walk above the… Brings sharply back something know… The miniature gaiety of seasides. Everything crowds under the low ho…

Rain patters on a sea that tilts a… Fast-running floors, collapsing in… Tower suddenly, spray-haired. Con… A wave drops like a wall: another… Wilting and scrambling, tirelessly…

Lonely in Ireland, since it was n… Strangeness made sense. The salt… Insisting so on difference, made m… Once that was recognised, we were… Their draughty streets, end—on to…