I scored a hardcover collection of Ted Hughes’ poetry cheap cheap last night. While bonding with the pages I came across this:
Crumblings, glanced into
By strange smiles, in a saleroom,
Where the dust is of eyes and hearts, in proportion,
As well as of old shoes, meteors, and dung …
To be an heirloom spoon, blackening
Among roots in a thorn-hedge, forgetful
Of flavours as of tongues,
Fleeting towards heavenly dispersal,
Walked by spiders…
Nightfall collects the stars
Only in a manner of speaking.
Everything is inheriting everything.