Regaining control of the night

Days that belonged to war and peace
At the same time, they were always so:
Darkened cinemas, the strength of lamps
Reduced as low as possible.

Peace being restored at different speeds,
The sea disarmed, England calm,
And the shelf upon which it sat
More certain of the greens and golds,

Or what she might look like
While looking—her hummingbird nature,
Her mapletree nature. Hers is the first
Of many languid arms to reach out

Like a lifted horizon in a landscape’s
Perfect swaying, her opaque red plumage,
Lips and heels like patched sails
In the same damp winter’s afterglows.

An eye of inshore trees and shrubs,
It has in fact got brighter,
Light creeping in directly
In front of the house, a burst of light

Over it. Puckering her shoulder,
Spreading her fingers,
Knifing along the tip
Of the beauty leaf on her breasts.





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