8/6/17

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O rain you are too long you are
slender droplets there in the
weird blackness of sun, Theresa
running in wheat fields I guess
she has stolen Lawrence’s golden
pastoral have I longed for God
have I prayed in dark chapels
for golden thoughts, the boughs
of yews over graveyards in all
their berries of blood. Nobody
remembered my name in the room
but they smiled when I spoke
or spat my madness. He was a
Kantian explanation, the rain
brought fear to the sockets; I
nourished my milk, I felt the
amoeba glow of imminent illness.

In the surgery, in the white room
peeling the scabs from his skin
I could feel that whisky that silt
on his tongue and I wanted the
whole of him dark within me;
one brood of the shadowy hour
we’d be, just that nicked with
millions of cuts. To be wild
is to shed that plastic, that film;
like a wine-dark pool I was always
absorbed, marble glass that
shone from without, within.

He wrote a tune that shivered
and the real rain in my head
retreated, the cool of it slow
beneath my heart where the
malady slicked and parted.

I voted and drank in the bar
where everything bristled;
here, what austerity of the
fruit machine, what horn
of Tennents, of peanut plenty.

Lonely,
I gave birth to a
hundred wilted roses.

My labour
of love for the sickness
quickens then sings it.

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