every song on the radio reminds me of you
each one seems to be the story of our lives
yet i believe nothing is like anything else

My brother's eye was painted
clear in family portraits.

So torrents of the Seventh,
Fifth and Ninth. Riverbeds of
Bach, Beethoven and Amadeus
rapids of the sky, peaks and pastures

I open a volume of fluid. 
A bright sloth orphanage glints 
from the screen within the screen, 

Mother spoke skua: 
she shrieked. Who can roll back 
the Atlantic scandal?

Fog hides the shallow ditch, no more
Than a grassy furrow, marking the edge of our land.
Oak wees and thorned acacia bend over it,

This morning I killed more wasps
Than I could count.
My thumb jammed on the spray-can.