Sport 28: Autumn 2002
The snow will be full of human forms,
And to its superfine gradations
The human face will be bound
To seem smeared, the eye of the truth
By a term like ‘softness’.
The battle hovers over its own field
Where my stricken horse, whose nature
Is a place without water, must not lean
Across the fire with its side
Of the early morning, side of evening;
With its supple body, silken
Or inflexible, that sheds rain well.
A shaper, what he sells
Are metaphors, if they enter the cave,
Close it with leaves of compassion
To taste that taste,
The burning chain of towers
Suffocating under the small herb
‘You call’, the dried roots of
‘It does not matter’.