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Poem	(i) how new the world is trying to find nerve in an old rind (ii) the bread is crumbled for birds to swallow rolled into droppings flowers from the hair of noseless statues tyrants of parks where men have cowered too long and mistaken unmanned by he dark (iii) when we awaken (how have we fallen) machines are broken wires lie strangled by the messages they nursed lathes are swinging from trees in derision pipes burst and scalded houses contorted (what went on in such rooms that stare from their windows) cars tap the kerb their eyes put out by the order of fingers that have jabbed through the skin of the earth infected with visions there is ink in us swirling (if we spill it we bloom) - no writing erupting from the cave where the guilt-laden beast has his parchment will do for our murders we must stab with a brash shape of pen no quill but a sting-ray (iv) marshes are the womb of the poor - the flowers that creep out of doors will be crowned by and by will unite with the worm who (crawling for light in the last breath of time) mangles itself in the cogs of the cyclops who crashes to death unable to function hence the sun is revealed parasites begin the digestion in the harsh shack of winter corn is conspired the marsh bares its breast to a medal a gold leaf is born - there is hatred and hunger a cry from the rushes proclaims a long journey whose sundown will see us in safety - whose home be our grave where we scratch there is blood on the rockface that we murder ourselves is no setback - we arise from the tomb unprovided what-is-known is our crutches let the light kick them from us the sun eats us up and renews us inside me am i turning to stone the drill niggles downwards there may be oil in my bone though the flesh is all gone only in the dark was it dumb if we squeeze our darkness through a doorway what new voice might come (v) how old the world is trying to put grey on a green shoot how thick the answers when questions find nerve in a new mind
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