broken.

There is an axle, it is not his -

Draws a straight line through the circle is the line of gender

marking

her species marks her out or down as the crouched dog baring its jawbone

in a radiance of feathers.

Blue mud under the hedge.

Her blue.

The instant of collision: not then.

Not now she prays. Let it not be now.

In the perfect clarity

leaves falling through trees. White green white.

Afterwards: there is a flickering.

Afterwards in the blue TV

when the story breaks her into completion.

In the midsummer paddock on your back turning

the sky is a wing flung out

over water.

This is inviolable how does she come to accept

beyond the register of fact

how the space gathers her

As if so much

could shield.

All of a sudden the film jerks and spools it is fast

it is very fast Where is the space now

she can roll into roll her body heavy with it?

He bends a neck. Now. It is now

how all the summer garden (you are looking)

how the spandrelled

parasols of cow-parsley where the wood

green

how they pull this apart

her feathered dazzling flank In the heat of the day

the bees at her crotch

There is a wheel she has it under her arm

when she stops you in the garden

putting her hand out. Now

Never coming to rest whirring

raises a breeze which lifts her long hair.

You put the coffee on the terrace.

You lay the saucers side by side on the tin

you bring the sugar bowl. Now

Smoothing the cloth

to turn

the spoons white brightly

a movement of humming Now

Now Now