Only disappointment made much sense,
As if I had come back to try
To wear the fabric of a lie,
To be a child,or re-invent
All that that childhood had not meant.
Yet there is rightness in my lies,
Vivited unfactual landscapes of
The inner silences of love.
The place where happiness is set
And all renewing loves are met
By ivied walls ar by the river
When at dusk the world's a park;
And though I change,and sunlight's never
The same again,or woods so dark,
And active generations cry, 'Forget,Forget!'
These are the fields of love and death,
And cannot change,were meant to be
Forever there distortedly
The fixed and visionary part of me.
The daisies are like frost,
Deaths of many babies,
And daisies under dew,
Many unbirths in the frog-morning
No shining is possible,it is as grey as matter,
Grey as tennis shoes.
It is grey-grey,
The opposite colour of whiskey.
There is no sky at four o'clock,
Only light that oozes grudgingly
...dark as guilt,
Hardware of the dawn,
Inert outline of trees,
A lighted window...
Lifeless individuality,
...,like self knowledge.
There is no world beyond that
No absorbing frivolity,
No newspapers with columns
Or how to know the best wines,
No cross-channel ferries,
No banks and no bookshops
You might say it is just negative,
Or free,a long division sum forever.
Four o'clock,you blank,
I might even get to like you.
Will I see you often,
Your roomless world of headaches,
You chirp like old doors opened,
You detach in surprising black birds.
Will you do something for me?
Don't be like the rest of the summer.
Summer's a sentimental mess,
Like being young.
And don't visit me;stay outside.
Keep me watching you.
Keep me cold.Keep me alive.Keep me.
They will not leave me,the lives of other people.
Mysterious people without names or faces,
Whose lives I guess about,whose dangers tease
And not one of them has anything at all to do with me.
