Faces bob across the window
like TV with the sound off

Even if you believe in Jesus there comes a moment when everything sinks. It is that moment when the fire collapses in the grate and the skinny sticks lie there smouldering, broken like the bones of the saints. 

I do not understand this child
Though we have lived together now
In the same house for years. I know

This to be peace, they think beside the river
Being adapted well to expectation
And their wives’ mutiny at no achievement,

You will expect the light to come to hand 
        As birds to other men; you will demand 
(So gently that it seems a mere suggestion) 

Back to her own devices now she turns,
Watches the objects shadowed by their stillness;
The vase stands upright where the first light falls,

So, at the base of all we know
And think most ordered, there presides
Chance, the prime mover who provides

Difficult not to see significance
In any landscape we are charged to watch,
Impossible not to set all seasons there

I’m tired of lying here.
The mountain and the river are not bad.
Sometimes a bear, a boar, or a deer

Even the morning dreams of it

Bent over those torn envelopes or steaming
Papers those Cubist towers