Those who walk with dogs and artificial smiles
Beneath the brown and yellow
Canopy of leafage
Two days after Bonfire Night,
Are not the same and yet they are…
Some the daughters of those others
In my past some two score years.
Foolish as they are, there is escape…
Dasein, care, reality, care,
When one plus one does never equal
More than one
What exists would do so still if
Caring not but blinded by
Its raw effulgence, the
Humour of the pattern raises
Out of mundane worries,
Not a raising out of nothing
More selection out of everything,
Conic section of the possible,
And when the killer thinks that he kills…
No more than each drop of the ocean
Each letter of the English alphabet
Or each unreal imaginary number
Selfishly enwreathed
Within the same divine conceit.
Within the same divine conceit.
