Two more - one of them's about Virginia Woolf kind of, one's not ...
NEW YORK
Ribs rattled by the Cyclone circling rough
And undersupervised, we’re half bereft
In summer desolation stark enough
To fall in love with the ghost park that’s left.
If asked, we would be thrilled to “Shoot the Freak
Live Human Target”, but the freak’s not here
Today, he’s scared the Island is too bleak …
For him, but not for us. We have no fear
To eat the hot dogs, hog the boardwalk stalls,
Look out for monsters on their holiday
Or mobster kids in beach huts. But the balls
Are bouncing stories from a long gone day
When Coney Island rocked and rolled all summer long –
At least, the Coney Island I entrusted to a song.
SEVENOAKS
A last straight mile incline to that last oak
And loop it back. Then, if I’m lucky, deer
To scatter as I reset what was broke
And like a slowly boldening Alpine skier
I gather pace to pass the house, which takes
Its time. I count to three six five, intone
My prayer, and ask the guest of ghosts what makes
A single room here wholly of her own.
Down there, that home is small and never ours,
where I abide, expand from front to back
unconscious so long of the blackened hours
the ivy hides as brickwork starts to crack.
Those hills we climbed; no need to climb again.
Those rooms were never filled; not now, not then.
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