After the Funeral

In the Ceramic Gallery. No train
till half past five. Yellow.

No amber. A hornet
would be something from another poem,
eager for nectar. We

fleer with yellow leaves. A
row of white bowls that make
mouths at it, months of it,
moon after moon. Colder
and rimmed with copper. In

the Ceramic Gallery, the yellow
October plane tree leaves in Gordon Square.
Nothing slabbered about Pauline's death. Some
details will rustle about or hump it
and call it a sixpenny jug. Think it
as leaves. Think it as bowls. It's a question
...