That on the silent horizon, somethingNot a sunrise rose, half itself and half The horizon, dragging its bulk, its lightsAnd salts, from under shifting sheets of sea,Leveling the sky into shallow moatsOf sounds, flecks of birds, beginning againTo believe all brief and sideways dreamingTo be, as previous was the complaint,Lint on time’s black coat, blanketing the west,Becoming the unfathomable death maskFreckled with stars, rendering itselfAs its other, as though to mirror la,But not mirroring it, and therefore nowMirroring it, all sumptuous unscriptedLa, la mirroring la like the pricked prongOf a tuning fork that, for all its song,Between sensation and sensation isStill nothing but air, a titan’s dyingAir, a titan’s dying air now againA titan’s surging flame, an ancient flinchIn an ancient sun mirrored and madeInto la, the void in the voice, the voiceIn the void, lala: aiai, song and pain,Song and pain, song and pain, and there it is.

From ‘Living Weapon’, to be published in the UK by Faber on January 21 (£10.99) and in the US by Farrar, Straus and Giroux on February 18 ($24)

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