Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Bolt hole, brick hole
Corrugated chapel
The cries of youth
Starless skies
Deepest river valleys
The dearth of truth
Railways rattle
On into up-country
With weight to pass
Settle the bill
Pay the overdue account
Open your eyes
Step on the gas
