ON ANY KIND OF NOVEL
So this is the way it should be,
with everything there just to be described–
like landscapes, seascapes or family portraits
which seem most real when they are not so.
H only it could always be like this
and then I might hit upon some true feelings;
outside, the girls are singing 'Ragtime'
and then of course I start singing it too.
Ah these people, I wish I could immortalise them
like Ronald Firbank or even Graham Greene...well,
they are wearing sweaters saying 'Crisis? What Crisis?',
their breath can be traced like pale branches,
here today and gone tomorrow OK?
So winter is coming in, and the self fades
and flickers; we read novels late into the night,
watching helplessly as characters race toward each other
until the screams and whistles finally die down
and a faint violet spreads across the margin.
So much has been written about this light, both for
and against, I don't know how to begin-
where the stars go? how the day starts?
Angel Clare bows his head against the wind,
thinking about the things he has to do today:
if I come out into the open will I be myself,
or will it be the beginning of another story?
