Amateur and muddled, as their sex goes
Tired, symbols, like trousered scars
Forgotten, pavements for their shoes, wristwatches
For their time, calendars for months,
Stars, comets, even the sparkler
Sirius and Wordsworth’s planet hidden,
Men push in their cheques, dole out the rent
And tax, in August sniff the sea.
Professionally, the bird sings
Through fight or love, the new leaved willow
Bends, the children swing in blue
And green, and the wet clouds extend.
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