insides
 
give the ghosts a spray
their minuscule presences inflict
their death a delayed encumbrance
 
dust and dust some kind rictus
into the day’s bad ball, a wrong curve
a thrown away
 
there’s a valerian in bud at the end
which brings sleep to blood
and feverfew’s yellowgreen bitter send-scent. But
 
none would shine
none could win through these darkening
accuracies, these remembered backtime lines
 
hidden the twayblade orchid’s new loop
inexpressible the balsam’s shuddering profuse
evening: and no levelling
 
of the sharp induced
child-memories
soil and an all-day day long rain has
 
abused its
mithering
good