have I been here before,
the variations of anywhere
framing the limits of waking within a wretched humility?

am I become one of the blown boys, those dear, dear boys
and their desolate, punctual, martyrdom,
or a resolute extra in a post-mortem smack fug

at ease to fester with my wounded, skyward muttering,
where even fake flowers offer injury?

I

easily shaken by bleary imaginings as obdurate
as a politicians dancing lips which, if they are moving,
must be lying,

rather crave the ocean's incoherent, uncorked, yawn
its contorted salutation an easy answer to the hardest ask