Eleven Poems

EXORCISM

In this brick bunker, black and wet,
I stab you
And shall hang for it.
Drop, drop
To the roar of coals,
Drowned in the worst of devil-holes.
I care less for your black sprite:
I swing at ease, up there, tonight.

PLAIN COUNTRY

Lean trees, quietly sane,
Stand against the sky;
No creature breaks from cover,
No excess feeds the eye.
What plain country is this?
No wind for animation;
Every vegetable thing
Established in its station;
...