Two Poems

A Dead Wasp in Leicester

Summer with no grass.
Reversed from papers in a mushroom's brow
one noble, savage wasp roars
in the purple tube that shocks it
going over our door.

This is an English city:
if a wasp come to it, argo,
it is strawberry jam - but
if the city go to it, look you,
well, it will.

The ensuing healthful fizz makes as tiny noise
as one factory on Narborough Road still zigging
  insteps
at this hour by the lightening horizon,
or a little palsy of bones
in your rural philosopher's box.

In its declining brain-fever and electric
(but too short!) perception,
...