115

I was nearly asleep and I
Could hear laughter and the
Sound of glasses and there was
Music that was low and it
Was far away. Sometimes my
Eyes nearly closed, it seemed
As if everything was lifting up
And away from me, at the
Window the trees were running
Away in the wind and it all
Faded in the music like when
You wake and don't remember.
I could hear my father's voice
By how deep it was and by
His laugh and somehow I felt
As if he was leaving, and then
I heard his voice as it was
All speeding away from me and
It said Don't be long now son

114

I am sat with him, and
It has been two days now.
He is drunk, has been so
Since he brought me here.
He has become very pale.
He feeds me whiskey as if
I were a child, as if it were
Medicine. And now he talks.
Know anything about the
Thermodynamic principle?
It's all—Nothing. We, we
Are outliers, like the shapes
It is making, when waves
Fall and a shape of foam
Is left there—That's like us.
Entropy. It all breaks down.
And we will reach a point
—Soon—Where it all will go
Back, return, contract, all
Disorder will fall in on its
Self—Syntropy, reordering.
Time will run backward,
They say. And no life, none.
Disorder is life's element.
We evaporate, not condense.
No life. Just a silent trillion-
Year lapse—Back into where
It, whatever—Singularity—
Or God, where he was born.
That would be the last death.
He drinks, and it seems he
Watches something moving in
The air before him, his eyes
Lit, darkly, until his head falls.

113

His eyes were open and he
Stared at me and at the
Knife. I was sure that there
Was nothing in his pockets,
Nothing capable of harm.
He was, if possible, yet
Paler than before and he
Sat trembling as water fell
From his hair and beaded
Across his contoured face.
There was a look of dumb
Incomprehension on his
Face, as if he had fallen out
Of coordination in the world,
Had somehow misplaced his
Cause and motive power.

Yet suddenly he sprang up,
Even from under the knife I
Held, and I had to withdraw
It up away from him of else
He would have been cut by it.
For an immaculate, bright
Instant he was a motionless
Figure within the downpour,
The rain breaking off his body
Like sparks from an anvil.
Suddenly he broke his pose
And made a bolt for the trees
And I didn't try to stop him.
There was a bottle in the
Grass filling up with rainwater.
And that was years ago, now.

112

I came from under the porch
Into the rain and walked over
Toward the figure in the chair
Under the bent spokes of the
Parasol, which was dark, wet.
I could see a halo of grey hair
And the white, taut skin of
A bare scalp and the lapsed
Shape of shoulders, supporting
A head weighted with sleep.
I walked around the lounger.
A pallid, misshapen, paunched
Man of perhaps fifty, eyes
Set back in chalky sockets like
Recesses in a cliff. He stank
Of alcohol even from several
Feet away. His white shirt was
Stained yellow with grass stains
On the arm as if he had fallen
In the night as he stumbled
In from the surrounding trees.

I took from my jacket a
Small kitchen knife and held
It in my hand and I began
To feel his pockets and as
I was doing this his eyes came
Open and he stared at me,
All but motionless, bloodshot.

111

I woke up at about six
And then again at six thirty.
Something brought me out of
Bed and onto the upstairs
Landing, and to the window.
There was rain coming off
The pines, and the air was
Full of its slow fall. Down
At the end of the yard near
The trees a puddle formed
In the dogeared grass was
Dancing with it continually.
The morning was dull and
Milky white, close with mist.
Ten yards from the porch was
A sun lounger and an old
Beach parasol, sodden, its
Red and yellow and white all
But faded like an abandoned
Circus tent. Somebody was
Down there, sitting in the sun
Lounger. I could see only
The outline of a figure, white,
Slumped as if unconscious.
It occurred to me it was this
Presence that had brought
Me from sleep, to the window.

I stood there looking at the
Rain and the slumped figure,
And then I went downstairs.

110

You can stay here, until
Nine a.m. tomorrow morning.
There is bread and in the
Fridge there is some milk.
If you want, there is more
Whiskey over on the TV.
If you smoke anything other
Than cigarettes in here, I
Have a Dutch-made hammer.

The body of him swayed
Over the half-conscious mime
Pale and indistinct like a
Dreamfigure, pausing to knock
Back whiskey and to close
His red and moist eyes.
Is there somewhere I can
Wash this off? He gestured
Vaguely to his own face.
Pierrot swayed close to him.
No. No water. Milk or whisky.

109

And I said to ma Hollis is
Sleeping should I wake him
And she said you mind you
And let Hollis mind his self
So I sat with my milk and
Then she said where's John
And I said he oughta been
Up with pa and she sent
Me out to the yard to get
John. It was cold out in the
Yard but it was September
Still. My breath was smoke.
Then I called out for John,
But he never come out or
Else he wasn't there. So I
Run to the barn and there
Was a shirt white and all
Soaked in the hay and it
Was John's. But he wasn't
There and I remembered
My milk cold at the table.

108

He is watching television and
Eating chocolate and it is the
Evening and the television says
In the next hour we and he
Changes the channel and the
Window is open and the sound
Of a church meeting at the
Community centre comes in
Borne on the rising air and
Their singing and shouting is
In contest with engineered to
Give you the sleep you need
And with the immanent noise
Of sugar and cocoa and fat
Churning in his large mouth.
He gets up and his shirt hangs
From him watermarked and
Stained with chocolate and
Vast and a beneficent voice is
Saying You cannot condemn
The others for their illusions

107

The mime chokes and comes
Awake and starts up coughing
Beating at his chest and it
Seems for the first time that
There is blood come into his
Face and he veers back to
Lie horizontally once more.
His eyes fix on Pierrot, drawn
Back darkly into the recesses
Of his painted face, watching
For any violent movement but
Pierrot only stands above him
Brandishing the liquorglass.

The television is playing but
It is mute. Inside it, arranged
As in diorama, an armoured
Vehicle moves minutely in the
Wreckage of an empty street.
The white hulking man and the
Drawn, lurid child maintain
Their nonmotion, and speak:
What is your name? Pierrot.
Do you speak French? No.

106

He come to in the barn
Where he was asleep in the
Dark in a pile of hay
But now it was light
And the bottle was there
Empty in the hay and of
A port in air and he
Rubbed his face and said
Boy, shit and looked at
His self and scrambled up.
It was light and blue
Light was coming through
The roofslats smelling of
Horses and of the team
Silas had put out to work.
Shit he said and took the
Bottle and flung it away
Into the trees where he
Heard it broke. And he
Heard a voice calling out
John, John, from the yard
Or somewhere, and it was
Me calling. It was my voice.

105

He sits at dusk in the back
Of the workshop where he
Can hear the rain and he
Waits for a cup of tea to
Cool that is sitting by the
Abstracted insides of an
Old steel and gold pendulum
Clock. His small, dry hand
Moves as if automated over
The wooden surface of the
Bench lifting up components
And replacing them in turn.
There is a tiny pair of pliers
In his mouth, and his off
Hand rests on a large vice.
Behind a pair of glasses his
Eyes are lost in reflection;
But they are there, moving,
Restlessly, from part to part.
When his movement ceases
The tea has cooled and he
Drinks it entirely and sits
Back in his chair for a long
Time listening to the rain
And to the precise working
Of his internal mechanism.
60 beats per minute, bipartite.

104

He is smoking in the back
Room, watching it grow dark.
His hunched back is pale
And indefinite against the
Window, and as he puts
The cigarette out he leans
And picks up a bottle of
Painkillers and a glass and
Pours whiskey and eats the
Pills, three, and he drinks.

He walks back into the other
Room where the mime is
A long skeletal shape on
The couch with a sheet on
Him; his narrow shoulders
Visible beneath it and the
Pale, shapeless framework
Of his outdrawn abdomen.
Pierrot stoops down by him
And grips the face by the jaw
And wrenches it and forces
A measure of the whiskey in.

103

He is sitting in the street at
A table outside a small cafe
With a coffee and a cigarette,
Wearing a white sports coat
And his loafers, and a cap.
Hair offwhite, skin offwhite.
He is watching a street mime.
The mime is tall, maybe six
Foot, and unnaturally thin;
The bones show at his ribs,
At his back, his neck, his
Ankles—he is a schematic.
He wears a thin polo shirt
And tights, and his face
Is white with thick tears in
Black. His eyes are black
Stars, and red at the core.

Pierrot sets the coffee down
And walks over to watch him.
He watches the slow motions
Of the mime's arms and the
Development of his figure;
He seems fluid in the air
Passing the street, as a flag,
His body loose beneath the
Fixed position of his skull.
He is morphic, deathlike.
There is an opiate smell as
Pierrot approaches; the mime
Ceases to move and his body
Loosens and his frame and
His arms and his stark face
Fall from the wooden pallet
And land in Pierrot's arms.

102

They pull at him, both,
And he dances away and
Spins heavily before they
Pile in and weigh on
Him again, and they seem
To dance together, three,
On their toes, gripped
In their all arms, the
Ball in his fat hand,
Tottering and rotating
And forging on as the
Sod flies up behind them.
Then they fall, and the
Fall is as limbed and as
Massive as that of a show
Horse failing at a gate.
They are felled together,
And the earth flies up.
One's mouthguard ejects
And one's mouth is red
With a cord of saliva
And one is motionless.

101

He sits in the cafe drinking
A can of Coca-Cola and he
Watches a television that is
Mounted on the wall over
The counter. It plays and it
Replays the same images for
Minutes at a time, and over
The images voices tune in and
Fade, urgent, unsure, pressing.
He watches and drinks the Coke,
Thinking should I go to work
Or stay here. Through the
Glass the street looks empty.
The owner went upstairs half
An hour ago to watch it on a
Tiny TV set with his sons. He
Is alone in the place with it;
Reiterated impact, the collosal
Structure falling, columns of
Rended steel and smoke, then
The plane again, then the tower,
Figures running, smoke, smoke.

99

He is at the sink, his head
Under the tap, cold water
Running off his bald crown
And through the remains of
His hair where it lies as if
Fallen at an explosion,
Black and limp and ragged.
The pale crown is doubled
In the small, dim mirror,
As is the bare lightbulb.
He comes up for air and
Looks at himself with a
Beard of clear water and
His scalp scattered all over
With broken light. He does
Not turn off the tap, he
Only stares at his own face
And listens to the basin fill
And does not recognise it.

From some abstract place
Above him, it is as if
The whole of his past life
Were pouring in, a great
Obscure pressure on him.
A mass, or a momentum.
As when, after a long drive,
He would sit and smoke and
Feel the room move forward.
He puts his head under again,
And it pour and pours.

98

He is at the store counting out
His change. Under the tubelights
He is like a kind of ghoul, so
Washed out as to seem fading
Into view constantly, always
On the boundary of being formed.
The attendant is behind the till
Watching him count, watching
The silver coins fall and gather
In his white, brittle hands.
His calculation is as detritus
Accumulating noiselessly in the
Thin atmosphere of the store;
He wears a bow tie, speaks only
Very softly; he seems a figure
Of ridicule to the attendant, in
His loose, white silk shirt and
His small, worn grey loafers.
A woman comes in and space
Sways around the carnations on
Her dress, and he watches her.

97

He stands in the morning light
In the white silk shirt with the
Big black buttons and outside
The window there is ventilator
Steam and traffic noise and he
Is pale and the shade is drawn.

He picks up the instrument to
Examine it: two kilograms of
Brass with raw and imperfect
Valves at intervals along its
Length; small metal pinions
And brass filaments and keys
Padded with dry pink sponge;
An etching of a flower; a solid,
Dull silver mouthpiece, with
Small steel ligature, Japanese.

He looks at it in the milky light
And his eyes are like dim eggs
And he replaces it on his desk.
He gets a tumbler of murky gin
From the white medicine cabinet
And sits down, a spent machine.

96

The house is dark as if all
Beyond it were yet to be made.
He puts on a jacket and he
Gets a bottle of beer from the
Refridgerator, unlocks the door
And steps out into the air.
The air is cool, it is September.
It is full of low noise and
Low evening light, the traffic
Up at the junction and drinkers
Somewhere in a nearby street
And streetlights and white lights
That flicker on as he passes them.
The world is grinding around
In one large continual course,
As loud and as steady as a factory.
Up at the cricket green he lies
Down away from the lights and
Drinks the beer and he peers up
At what stars are visible and
Senses their distant, slow rotation.
Gardens border the green, lit up,
Otherworldly, like empty stagesets.
He thinks how small England is.

Some three or four hundred lie
In their beds, or are yet awake,
Or, now cold, await being found.
Overhead, the stars carry on
Their distant, bleak emergency.