Sound rises. That is a law. I live in this law. I do not
                        want to make anything
                        that rises. These words

I heard a little cough
in the room, and turned
but no one was there

Alone, which has grown to mean without you,
        I sweat in our old bed. In the bay, the storm’s orchestra tunes. 
Thunder, and my next expression is one of yours.

Learning to say “So what?”
in every other language,
I rolled between cities 

my emptiness has a lake in it   deep and watery 
with several temperaments      milk   cola  beer 

at night the selves are made of water 
all the openings flooded    streaming with rain 

The silks of France will always be finer than those of England,
and the woolens of England finer than those of France,
and we are born wanting 

In the end we are no more than our own stories: 
mine a few brief passages in the Book, 
no further trace of plot or dialogue. 

A library with endless shelves: the halls
Receding into binding-lined allées.
And every book a life, hardbound and standing

That was the year the Nazis marched into Vienna,
Superman made his debut in Action Comics,
Stalin was killing off his fellow revolutionaries,

Summer is hitting Gloucestershire like starlight spitting at a black slab of cloud.
The fields are not really made of greenness, it is the color of steel or a seabed.
Maybe you will be able to dig down into Gloucestershire as if it was a page to be turned,