i brought in the sheaves 
     they made 
     a hell of a mess 
     on the floor 
     everybody prayed for me 
     except god 
       
       

     STRATEGIES 

     is the universe neat 
     or slovenly 
     depends on where you're standing 
     or floating 
     it could be a barrage 
     of slops 
     on the bishop's tea ring 
     kissed by a mite 
     spare is how 
     i like things 
     simple uncluttered 
     a monk's habitat for regarding 
     honest nada 
     while many try 
     to hide in tangles 
     let me perplex the very idea 
     of otherness 
       
       

     LINES DOING RECONNAISSANCE 

     the last 
     the very god-damned end 
     nobody uses mail-boxes 
     any more but for 
     prayers 

     the gardeners trip 
     in the hedges 
     while reassuring the daft 
     that nature 
     can finally be tamed 

     all around is 
     sorrow 
     made perfect 
     by constant 
     rehearsal 

     the last 
     the very god-damned end 
     and everywhere 
     despair gets underlined 
     with bodies 
       
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