Under her brow the snowy wing-case
    delivers truly the surprise
of days which slide under sunlight
        past loose glass in the door
    into the reflection of honour spread
through the incomplete, the trusted. So
    darkly the stain skips as a livery
of your pause like an apple pip,
    the baltic loved one who sleeps.
Or as syrup in a cloud, down below in
    the cup, you excuse each folded
cry of the finch’s wit, this flush
    scattered over our slant of the
        day rocked in water, you say
    this much. A waver of attention at
the surface, shews the arch there and
        the purpose we really cut;
    an ounce down by the water, which
in cross-fire from injustice too large
    to hold he lets slither
                                                  from starry fingers
    noting the herbal jolt of cordite
and its echo: is this our screen, on some
    street we hardly guessed could mark
an idea bred to idiocy by the clear
    sight-lines ahead. You come in
        by the same door, you carry
what cannot be left for its own
    sweet shimmer of reason, its false blood;
the same tint I hear with the pulse it touches
    and will not melt. Such shading
of the rose to its stock tips the bolt
    from the sky, rising in its effect of what
motto we call peace talks. And yes the
    quiet turn of your page is the day
        tilting so, faded in the light.
– J.H. Prynne. Rich in Vitamin C