somewhere else, in electronic print
and evil has been done again,
altogether out beyond
the sparrowhawk and bloodied mouse
of Darwin’s tangled bank.

How I’d like to believe in something
altogether larger than myself
but all the designs are crook
or dimly disproportionate
or just more proliferating art.

The time we need we burn:
it would be cool to concentrate
on this pale colour of skinshine
and the veriest ghost of a flush
as the cheekbone curves away

but what does the planet care
about sleights of perception,
whether I note the number of
scarlet geranium petals,
or that young chick’s arresting shoes?