NINE.(Poem)

"We'll Pay Paddy Doyle for His Boots"

 
   Just when your sweetest sleep begins you will 
   get tumbled toward your own extinction 
   as of a sudden the slippery ocean slants 
   and your bones, brim with warning, have you 
   clambering already sodden 
 
   on weather shrouds that lean away 
   from sky which is a genie of such speed now 
   such eerie scenery running 
   its blue-grey tackle that drags further tundra 
   of milk-grey hurricane beautiful maybe 
 
   like a once-good coat with pale ...