My next poem will have a box in it
Not too big, with TRUTH inscribed
On the lid which if you tilt an inch
Wisps of vapour like apparition will
Send love to their treacherous grave

The next poem will have Spring in it where
Across the fields moves a September wind
Bringing leaves and fear
Fingers and pauses, breathing,
Breathlessness

The next poem will be after-dark
The sky veiled
Although when there’s a full moon
One would know: those wolves — you
Feel them inside you, rousing from sleep

There will be an open door in the next poem
Shaped in the distance by a burning lamp.
Somebody emerges from the house
Stands in it;
The door disappears

And oh there shall be cigarette-smoke in the next
Fugs in which he used to live
Coating with ash his books
But there’ll be nothing about new ash in the poem
His ash-tray’s on my desk holding paper-clips