Whose inked spurs to the dialectic / snaking down the rancid page – / yours? mine? a third’s? / Those epigrams were dying on a lip: / were they mine you edified, undid?
Below, the land is quilted / like a chequered past, / cosmetic, infinitely private. / The in-flight service is delayed / and I am glad, but not the Americans. / Just as the captain predicts / a smooth flight we hit the turbulence.
