J.H. PRYNNE
Rich in Vitamin C

Under her brow the snowy wing-case
   delivers truly the surprise
of days which slide under sunlight
        past loose glass in the door
   into the reflection of honour spread
through the incomplete, the trusted. So
   darkly the stain skips as a livery
of your pause like an apple pip,
   the baltic loved one who sleeps.

Or as syrup in a cloud, down below in
   the cup, you excuse each folded
cry of the finch's wit, this flush
   scattered over our slant of the
        day rocked in water, you say
   this much. A waver of attention at
the surface, shews the arch there and
        the purpose we really cut;
   an ounce down by the water, which

in cross-fire from injustice too large
   to hold he lets slither
                                        from starry fingers
   noting the herbal jolt of cordite
and its echo: is this our screen, on some
   street we hardly guessed could mark
an idea bred to idiocy by the clear
   sight-lines ahead. You come in
        by the same door, you carry

what cannot be left for its own
   sweet shimmer of reason, its false blood;
the same tint I hear with the pulse it touches
   and will not melt. Such shading
of the rose to its stock tips the bolt
   from the sky, rising in its effect of what
motto we call peace talks. And yes the
   quiet turn of your page is the day
       tilting so, faded in the light.

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