Clap your hands and it’s over, I can see
that coming, already the guy is one.
We go inside the supermarket and stand by
the clay pumpkin stack, the carrots
and the pale greens, and feel forward
into it. The people, pushing by,
may take of our stillness and quiet.
It is good here, the freshness, the colours
people wear, the things they do before
their faces, the market they make
of their assorted bodies. Thoughts are eyes,
would that they saw their beauty
as I their ageing features. I believe
that gentle man is hugging his box of beer,
thanking what he has to get him through each week.
The brown legs on that man! enormous,
taking his forward orders from his Rugby,
enough fitness for late support, the same
restraint at work as on the field. It is
good here, it opens into cleanness,
a breeze carries the stockroom scents;
cardboard, cauli, cucumber, the shinny
concrete dryness of Storage, onion skins
copper crackled: the silent coming Everything—
slugs in the maze of a lettuce, the milk-dew
holding on cut throats in silver lovely trolleys…
To let go, to always let go, the Past touch lightly
as the future will: turn around inside yourself,
secure the minimum wealth to solve your problems,
and live practising letting go.
Yes, it’s good here, is something to notice
(and things go round, they go off on angles too,
and can’t be found). There’s more to these people
than eyes disclose, deeper their wisdom
than in their loads, pushed part willingly,
paid half gladly. Lines will furrow deeper, dissolve,
bone go dry. Stars will be crushed to a fine fired dust.
What will be left I think of that…As you and I.