No socket yet but fails, my love,
Aren't batteries born to give?
The nurselings of the human tongue -
Small miracles, a larger one
A wonder we can talk at all,
Even in screeds and palmistry.
I know my love we are not trained,
Not all of us, to make our tracks -
We're sealed to the human tribe
Whose currency is puzzled loss;
Yet when we have paid as we went
Still we'll have screeds, and palmistry.
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2 comments:
Sigh, John Clare has nothing on my lack of appreciation
its been solong since i have read your poetry that it's difficile to reenter the discourse... hence i will make a pedestrian pat on the back, "i like the line about currency loss blah blah".
ps... name of hypothetical antiheroine, "pedestrina"??
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