How would Larkin start this?
Musing on his need for a piss,
and the pitiful disappointment of our race,
but somehow taking time to replace
the frayed edges of a curtain, a derelict lot,
with a filthy stash of beauty,
which we stumble upon, furtively
(he likes that word)
exposing him for what he is;
not the miserable bastard of his life
but the burning Seraphim of verse.
No comments:
Post a Comment