When evening breaks up
its mass of clouds
the grass fire can be seen

Wild horses folded into their last night. 
One burrowed against the dead’s descending heat 
as three cantered from the threadbare wood. 

After Africa, Surbiton:
An unheated house, and flag-stoned pavements;
No colobus monkeys, no cheetahs scouring the plains.

Tired of the eighties, and the on-
going crisis in masculinity—the compliment 
each generation pays itself—he stared 

Never put your personal spoon in the common jelly bowl.
Spread your napkin upon your lap. Do not grasp.

Shall we go then, just to the corner
And no farther, not like lovers and other strangers
Who catch the same bus, and ride off together

Drive-by birth—this mother snares a cab.
Shoots up, delivers, leaves her baggage
Backseat to the world—boy born, tab

Do not let the bow scare you;

         it is for drawing back—

I make this line
my beast
of claw of tooth

There was a contest
once
for the best picture
of a peach