The Chiltern Way

The moon, a racing car and jeans
Three days operating in the WW1 trenches
Smoke on the horizon, ducks on TV

The fog has stripped off woods
Crying cocks on altars bequethed to mutiny
Mt. Fuji is a pallisade for badgers

Earning blood, vinegar without bells
Blindness sealed three times
Skaters on wooden seas in meditation

The tongue has sprung so high
A fish in a carefree wave of wand
A tram dipped in ketchup instead of love

Nothing is falling through
Letters scattered in a meadow float
Where is he in this timid quake?

Diffused sand, a tennis ball
Hitters on hills refuse to lunch
Ready in a desert, bigger than the lightning

Infection

In the realm of collapsed distances
We crawled through a thousand caves
In an eglatine atlas of trees

Reality is your dust drying on a line
Your face open to an amazing horror
Stranded in the vast pitch of your body

The night falls on daffodils
Steps, futile shrieks in the world of elevators
Redundant as their heads are

Natural to think how great
Spread on a slice of consciousness
Roof tiles balleting in the meadow grass