But, as you'd expect, they are very
Impatient, the buildings, having much in them
Of the heavy surf of the North Sea, flurrying
The grit, lifting the pebbles, flinging them
With a hoarse roar against the aggregate

They are composed of - the cliffs higher of course,
More burdensome, underwritten as it were
With past days, overcast and glinting, obdurate,
Part of the silicate of tough lives, distant and intricate

As the papers shuffled by the bureaucrats
Settling with coffee in their concrete pallets,
Awaiting the post and the department meeting —
Except that these do not know it, at least do not
Seem to, being busy, generally.

So perhaps it is only on those spun out to nothing
And airless afternoons, with tier upon tier
Of concrete like rib-bones arrayed above them,
And they light-headed with the blue airiness
Spinning around, and muzzy, a neuralgia

Calling at random like frail relations, a phone
Ringing at some office they can never get to,
That they become attentive — the planners,
The architects, the constructions themselves, and we
Living ourselves in these webs of buildings, which,

Caulked like great whales about us, are always
Aware that some trick of the light or weather
Will dress them as friends, pleading and flailing —
And fill us with placid but unbearable melodies
As the lift drops us down smoothly through the plates of glass.


Now collected in a free ebook published by Ocaso Press.