50


1 WHAT WILL EXCUSE US ALL
When the light passes
express pain. Stepping down
will not be likely
nor reaching the seas.

But we wait, love
past & then wave:
each one mudded, hopeless
it held us here.

Silence is chosen: noise
chooses us. No, sound
cry, up, start to
build – it does happen:

despair talking, floating open
away bright into this
& lighting it. Here
is the grave secret:

Waste, loss, loss, nothing
can repair us. Loathingness
& a brief self-maiming
silently, a buggery, please.

The bus draws off.
The light goes red.
It is windy, dark
forgotten, the colours rising

as through dark windows
something fades. The ink
can't record everything. Dear
this is near it

already perfected & enfolded
closed, still, sweet, sorrow
oh! I feel that
the sense of death

Love is near faded.
Oh I wait! Something
sweet, unforgotten, grave, that
will excuse us all.