The words my mother laughs at   
 sweet field flowers   
 grabbed with an iron fist   
 without fear or nettles     
 to man     
 cover the horizon   
 relics        
 buried with a trowel     
 in the concrete short breaths.   

 Objects dissolve   
 gadgets pile up on the beach   
 a flag flaps its opprobrium   
 the capsule pops   
 in the vestibule of the dying   
 the dog precedes the man    
 the man precedes the soul   
 the day is fading   
 a face pops out   
 like a postcard   
 the shepherd's bag   
 full of onions and dignity   
 to display by the river   
 fresh watercress with a little music   
 without omen   
 but all overhanging   
 the black hole of the past.  


 
 293