Therefore, we came to this shore,
labelled in blue, jagged and isolate,
on the table. A book which jaws away
while the dumptrucking moon troubles
the streets in first gear.
If I stare hard through the thin air I see my
vast and craggy knees. Being light
in the sawn eye in our hands
lost selves call from their seas.
Convener of dreams, tax exile of sureties,
my hands are wide,
walk through them.
We do not see how
it can be dreamed against,
voice echoing down palace walls,
the stone that sinks home is not strange
in any person we look
for the significant defining act;
their heads lean forwards and agree
that screw of tornado-wrath
is wheel of Phaeton’s war car,
that there is no in in infinite, observe
the bubble-beaded glass
raise it from the table: here’s to
everything that is not us.
Giles Goodland has published several books of poetry including A Spy in the House of Years (2001), Capital (2006), What the Things Sang (2009), The Dumb Messengers (2012) and The Masses (2018). He works in Oxford as a lexicographer and lives in West London.