The Gash In Its Throat Was Shocking,

He Was His Own Leftover, The Spat-out Scrag. He Was What His Brain Could Make Nothing Of.

I Think It Was Milosz, The Polish Poet, Who When He Lay In A Doorway And Watched The Bullets Lifting The Cobbles Out Of The Street Beside Him Realised That Most Poetry Is Not Equipped For Life In A World Where People Actually Die. But Some Is.

The Wolf Is Living For The Earth.

In The Pit Of Red You Hid From The Bone-clinic Whiteness But The Jewel You Lost Was Blue.

Stilled Legendary Depth: It Was As Deep As England. It Held Pike Too Immense To Stir, So Immense And Old That Past Nightfall I Dared Not Cast.