Gerald Burns signature    


Althea not enough for him (Collected Prince fingered today) the hundred fifty-four Sonnets
end likewise with a burning brand, brennynge the language its spelling the virility of
Guildhall stone minus (if one can) frippery stone figures too precious in older arches and then red
velvet curtains and stiff straight valances turn it to Punch. Big Ben and Albert
haze off in prickles of scaffolding, tight cases as if for packing. Put the hand in
the niche, draw out the manuscript. Cast figures on model horses (and the smallest horses themselves)
are pewter, made by a craftsman in the Cotswolds who gets the veins right in Nijinsky
and so on, graceful neck in today’s lay horse on two brass tubes to adjust the attitude
with knurled knobs, pitch and yaw, and a nine-pound maul stick that screws together days
after Reynolds found in a statue himself (palette in hand) and Hogarth’s
Shrimp Girl so much of the canvas bare, my end my beginning, Eliot read
in Tavola Calda, producing the clergyman Johnston who walked us to Russell Square’s
far end the windows his old offices and this in a way his office.
The man like a bad brother to Wilfrid Hyde-White complaining about the jam and that his horses
didn’t win, the wooden won dark with shaped plates that, pinned, led into its head the
ears moving also. We could time our starting from anywhere, eleven at night in the Lords that roof (David) all gowd
morning tea staining the paper tablecloth a bit.





  back   next