The nerve fibers, a veil on red music clanging,
cannoned from columns. An anthem bubbling.
Scientifically stretching over the cheeks
at the edge of one moment. The grey suit passed,
the overcoat, impressions everywhere.
Watching a negligible dog fetch as if it were human—
his hind legs so honest, so independent—
she stood in a doorway, not beautiful, never
specially clever, remote from herself. Over and over—
twist, turn, wake up, set going. Doomed to sinking—
decorate the dungeon, be decent.
The edge of her mind turning meaning for hours
at a time. Hours and days. A sound like a sickle.
Her head a bunch of heather. Then over.
The matted and tangled message, a red square.
The thinking nerves. The door of the room.
Dante : the Inferno. The English : London.
A piston thumping mechanically behind the screen.
Mixed clouds and seagulls, grey circles interlocked.
Grey to grey nothing nervous system.