Colloquium

Ten miles below the polar ice
exists a rock that praises Christ.

Beneath imperishable white
it sings a hymn throughout the night.

All life and colour there contract
into impassioned parts of black.

It grumbles for its daily bread.
It is unquestionably dead.

I wrap it up in furs and felt.
Ten miles above, the ice caps melt.



USA

I cannot get out of the car.
Still the sky blackens; in the west
thin strips of light repeat a test.
So, when you wish upon a star,
this much is true, if not the rest.
It makes no difference who you are.



Final Demand

The switch is broken. When I press
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