Saturday, 2 February 2013


I had now given the Greeks to the grave
game of spurring. Ajax had played his
jacks for tonight.

Their equations lost to a stark-eye lull.
A riptide anxiety broke the exchange
of warm beer, recall and focal laughs.

Retreat: the enclosure of a mystic.
That wooden-fixed anchoress that
never fixed her hair for love, never
toiled the earth for a showing, but
pitied herself to recollect her Trinity.

Fallen men became breakfast, stuck to
a ruined bed that was her square for
an uncomfortable bliss that was sure
and the vehicle for our heaven.