A policeman in white dancing between cars
Stopping off at IKEA
I have stocks in the barn
Before, the shops are quiet, streets wait for feet
Grey brick upon grey
The day is suddenly rich, our friend
It might have worked but God was having none of it
A dirty dream of a rolling sun
I see from the paper that the last one is dead
All the needles, all the spoons
Cigars
Scraping burnt-toast into the sink
Correctly, because he did it for his country
Up, down
His hands are black with blood. He loves his children.
Old, toothless soldiers
His eyes lived, but only his eyes, it was a trick
I would like to be collected
Young Christopher
Cows stumbling, enormous, slobbering cows
We were innocent then, on the banks of rivers
Who will it be, the last in the class to die, the first to live?
Sideways through the night
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