writing the phonebook

he is bigger and fatter he launches himself
with all the vivid motion of his projections
he blames me for himself
but I get out of his way and he slumps past
I do not intend to be kind or unkind, but I almost
can't help it.I don't want to hurt him.
but I have it in me to defend myself and I
catch his throat as he goes by, leave him choking
he wants to own me and take control, but I can't
allow that.he has to listen to the night
that now swoops upon us.you okay, I ask
as late geese settle in the pond by the trees
outside where the trees blow a little the dark trees
where the boys still half-sing and some paper cups
still drift across the black water—you okay?
once while navigating in a snowstorm I walked out on the ice
at Sprinkling Tarn.that was a little like this
I didn't know I had done it until I was in the midst of it
my foot went through near the edge but I made it
back.sat there beneath Great End looking at the fog
soaring up the cliff face, listening to the shouts
that bounced back off the vapour
not knowing what would happen next

so advanced are we now in fondness
that even the birds come in wet, shining, destruction


.