the railway sleepers heavy and dry
from old working women's bones
trains pass over like stout husbands
jacket,vest and trousers
smelling of cloth and husband
lay black on the chair
not responding to light
my nose on the pillow
breath flows along the cotton hollows
a bare bulb yellow in the signal box
the heavy sleepers lie dark
creek under the frost
a starving bush perched on the verge
shrieks at dense air out the tunnel
tearing its twigs
ends of roots suck cinders for complicated organic compounds
the signalman is noticing his painted tea flask on the sill
he picks his nose without knowing
snot drops about his feet
dawn gleams like mercury
afraid to come up
ivor cutler
WINDOWS ARE THE EYES OF A BUILDING.THEY SEE WHAT'S GOING ON OUTSIDE.THEY SEE THE WORLD CHANGE.THEY DON'T REACT TO CHANGES.THEY WATCH IN A QUIET SORT OF WAY.UNLESS SHUTTERS PREVENT THIS.
