I'd like to think...that people in pubs would talk about my poems

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows: The sun-comprehending glass, And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

The blown bush at the window

The sun is shining and Kingsley is awaiting me at the Crescent Hotel

Empty again, like hunger after a meal

It’s a warm night & numerous cats are giving their unearthly song outside, like wraith-children crying.

A splintered day reforms under the evening sky

on the edge of things..

Hull has me shagged out at the moment

Saturday morning I go for the meat, Body all aching Likewise the feet, Fools at my elbow Gormlessly greet, Shopping is hell In stupidity street.

Yes, I’m settling down in Hull all right. Every day I sink a little further.

I missed shaving and changing my sheets, but I wrote home, did my laundry, made lunch (macaroni cheese & cauliflower).

Tuesday - is it? No: Wednesday: groogh...

Morning has spread again / Through every street, / And we are strange again

All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense Of being in a hurry gone.

Absolutely nothing happens in my life, except routine work & thinking from time to time I’ve got lung cancer.

All’s ravelled under the sun by the wind’s blowing.

Walking on summer grass beneath the trees

The clouds are all home Like driven sheep.

Dreams before daybreak cannot keep / Their essences, or surely I should rouse / Into a dawn where all that's past seems sleep.