It’s the willed trick of concentration
  that makes of these heat-heavy
bogged declivities —the graves of

Broken or meddled with,
the alarm goes off at three.
I jump from sleep, crying out—what?

   Until we part, my reader, put
What is called reality aside.
   Instead,

We’ve received the morning post;
Royal Mail has sent a roast:
Let the ten-pound package lie

The question is not how like the animals we are
But how we got that way. We laugh, for what is a suicide note

But the epitaph of an emotion? Few of us die out in the open;

My theory that the people on both sides
of the mountain range were Brabers is a-

rousing violent controversy and censure

For one who watches with too little rest
A body rousing fitfully to its pain
—The nerves like dull burns where the sheet has pressed—

Like bulls trotting on their solemn rounds
over the cow flops, daisies, clover,
checking out the maidens of the meadow,

Happiness, in the fairy tale, comes hobbling
disguised as a hag. And the prince takes pity
on her, bringing her to bed, not knowing this

This pen, like your penis,
stirs in my hand:
those two or three kids