Time's Fool: A Tale in Verse
Houghton Mifflin US, 2000/Picador UK, 2001

from book 7

…That all around me is a site of bones
is not worth writing: writing will itself
defy it, fleshing out its broken lines

for all it’s worth. They formed a ring, the twelve,
when I was close to sleep. I heard the rain’s
sublime disinterest starting to dissolve

whatever would remain. I saw my hands
begin to rise, ten fingers outward, those
and these still seeing eyes, somehow to send

a word to the sad twelve – to shield my eyes
was all I thought my hands and eyes could do.
But that was wrong – I’d have friends recognize

the sight of them was dear; besides, no view
could frighten me. I made my hands embrace
in prayer and glanced above – I can’t see you,

I whispered so that no one heard – and last
my palms were upward-facing and my sight
was on each person till each realized.

And then my eyelids, with inhuman might,
began to roll the screens across. I heard
the hum of filming and a voice too sweet

to keep me conscious – Angel, give a word –
then I was waking and my face could feel
a rash of air, iron smell, and I beheld

a flock of birds fly up and turn, then wheel,
dark on the sky, white on a passing field.

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