Thursday, 9 June 2011


Morning after the row, I stare down
from our fourth-floor window to assess
the damage: blocking the drain,
his last plunge re-enacted, my Complete Hart Crane
has bloated threefold; come unstuck, with fractured spines,           
Kierkegaard and Lowry languish beside the bins.

And there in the cherry-tree’s leafless sticks,
wedged open – so a passer-below
could gaze up and discover two pagesAusterlitz
by Sebald, like a clump of vestigial snow.

                 (first published in Frogmore Papers)

No comments:

Post a Comment