The New Criterion

1.
Shredded—my kite—in the myriad-snagged
crabapple crown, the cane cross-piece flailing;
a dark wind visible even deep in the hedge.
I knew then how much my eros
was emptiness, thorn-fixed on desolation,
as rain rode up Severn and we, on high ground
eastward, scarped and broke it, like some beleaguered
folk of the Heptarchy.

2.
If it’s the brunt of years and luck turned savage
this is our last call, difficult coda
to the facility, the bane of speech,
a taint of richesse in the haggard seasons,
withdrawing a Welsh iron-puddler’s portion, his
penny a week insurance cum burial fund,
cashing in pain itself, stark induration,
something saved for, brought home, stuck on the mantel,

3.
industry’s knack, say, of bright Whitby jet,
randomness added to, the Family Bible
its own inventory. Egregious Randolph Ash,
Possession—the film—e ...

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