The death of the father is my shepherd,me maketh me three versions of wanting.
We have known such joy as a child knows.My sons, in whom everything rests,know that there were those who were deeplyin love,
Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,That wide wet kisser weSmacked on to justify a pipe.
I am a field.I am a blade of grassWithin the field.
“My mother lit me (father was her match)And set me in a draught to catch my breath.
If there are churchesThis is where a church might be,A theatre if there are theatres, orA store.
Wingbones shattered—feathersScattered over the continent—The four unbroken animal limbs beatingA shadow-wind to keep aloft:
