Via Negativa

 

That is not,
say, a surgical boot or a calliper,
not a clog or mud-clagged wellie,
not the footgear fitted by the hitman
as he sends you down to stand
upright in the dock silt rocking
in the current on your concrete
plinth, a Subbuteo man ...

Need I go on? Believe
me, this is what it says
it is: and if it says nothing,
being only steel and stone,
why should we not believe
it, tell me that?

 

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Poems © Philip Gross