MILLIONS
People against a background of insects.
Worn pavements enjoy the luxury of air.
Our sky is lifetimes of measuring.
Our spiral interiors are weathered, exposed.
Another day dawns everlastingly.
Its resurrection storms the panes
In smeared inscriptions of rain.
A gust of wind and dog bark,
Imagine why the plants growing.
The tower blocks are full of voices
Their tidings of evening a fragile bundle.
We settle, quivering like ashes.
The cactus is drowned in its growth.
The millionth day: the sleeping city.
Th ree Poems by Peter Ackroyd
'THERE ARE SO MANY...'
"There are so many useless things to be done
and, conversely, there are external forces
which can no longer be organised or controlled."
Think of all the leaves on a single tree
and the way that winter pulls them down
until nothing in the wood will grow.
Connections must now be made with human love,
as if it were a story in which the ending
has never been understood. I am going on with it
just to see what happens.
