3

These parts of thee I heard a man say
they could have, with their serpentine lakes.
But now I am in an oxgang.
It gets me along.
Lady, I am wrecked.
I go round and round
on the best historic leaf-litter.
But who did not write books?
I never writ.
But who did not set out in straight lines?
I never
but heads it would be over before roman roads
it’s tails &
here I am among pedunculate oak shaking.