from Last Poems

iv

Not that I care who’s sleeping with whom
now she’s had her womb
removed, now it lies in its own glar
like the last beetroot in the pickle-jar.

v

I would have it, were I bold,
without relish, my own lightly-broiled
heart on the side.

xiii

I would be happy in the knowledge
that as I laboured up the no-through-road
towards your cottage
you ran to meet me. Your long white shift,
its spray of honesty and thrift.

xiv

Ours would be a worldly wisdom, heavensent;
the wisdom before the event.