James Michie, 6 December 1990
Five foot eleven, twelve stone, sixty-three, I lie in the bath and look at the apple-tree And the apples dawdling into rubicundity
To blend with the old brick wall’s well-weathered red. Already, and all ready, I feel dead: The tub, no longer a limp invalid’s warm bed,
Is a dank coffin, my flesh wrinkled fruit For the birds, who pretend to be irresolute But eviscerate like...