Four Poems

As If Anything Could

A paper from the year before last is the start of
my tonight fire. Where was I? What have I done?
It’s not as if the world was shouting, ‘Do this!’ or
‘Do this!’ at me. And it’s not as if learning one thing
means unlearning one thing else. Home is to lie
when you need to lie, a bowl of tomorrow left
by the bed and a window at the height of your hand
to open, like a diary, so the days and all their equipage
slip lightly, oh so lightly, from the room.



Against Boredom

I marshal the kind of questions
answered by car parks, part songs and stained glass.
How you get from one to the next
is like chainmail
or sunlight on chainmail,
irrefutable.
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