Daffodils

Like a big brass band, 
Their trumpets started jumping 
In a blast of wind. 

Spirit Level

The statues in the Fields of Grammary, 

The coffins, too, are precious porphyry, 
And glitter on their pedestals at night, 
Or in their niches, seen by candlelight. 

Whose masks they wear, or slowly mouldering bones 
They cradle, are less conscious than the stone, 
And day and night, the sunshine and the rain, 
Alone or not, to them is all the same. 

Anatomical Model

The fake skeleton 
Had adopted the classic 
Brazen hussy stare. 

Dad Rock

Who is Billy and 
Why is his eyelash on the 
Cover of Rolling Stone? 

Swastika

Piece of a labyrinth. 
Chalk outline of a hit-and-run 
With broken limbs. 

Ex Machina

The ghostly oil-stain 
Lying in the driveway looked 
Strangely human-shaped. 

Slipping

The Mona Lisa 
Up close — her famous composure 
Starting to crack