A poet has no nation – excepting this Glory is not your word The petal shape Of a child’s anxious brow The adumbrate pane of self Sun warm against your arm Leant in that strangely desert face Of the sill’s soft craquelure Lead white and with the dirt Thick in seam and corner A mica fleck where one day (The window left half open) Something small may grow Once we are The long strides of morning Leaving curbs and fences In a shadow’s flicker wake
