Experience teaches, but its lessons
may be useless. I could have done without
a few whose only by-product is grief,

which, as waste, in its final form,
isn’t good for anything.

A helicopter beating all night above the firth,
a Druid shouting astrology
outside the off-licence will eventually
put the Ambien in ambience.

Our culture is best described as heroic.
Courageous in self-promotion, noble
in the circulation of others’
disgrace, our preoccupation with death

in a context of immortal glory truly
epic, and the task becomes suspension
of disparate particles

lest they fall naturally into categories
whose contemplation is bad infinity.

Isolation. The odd aural hallucination.

The meager ambit of a widow’s cabbage row
corresponds to necessity
and also to its architect’s state of mind

at the time. Why do I not move on? Why
hang around here while grass
grows up my chimney?

Every choice is a refusal. For Christ’s sake
I am guarding the walls.
Like punctuation,
it could make all the difference.