CANTO III  (continued)

I am a teabag born to be drunk.
I am the teacup born to warm mouths.
I am the fucking water boiled to death.
I am the Universe: it’s time to pour.
There is milk waiting in fridge,
a plastic carton of "Light Milk" purchased

[no udders pulled here,
no churns
no cream.
The children wouldn’t know how to pull their milk from teets.
The Roman Catholic Hierarchy cover-up the milking ceremony,
lest it distract the faithful from Mary.
She would never reveal her sources.
I am the fucking water boiled again.
In Christ’s name will you pour me out…
Can’t you hear the child waking?] 

Close the bracket
Mind the Gap
Procrastinate
Obfuscate
At your peril

Out of the gloom was born the dawn.
A copper beech cast against orange,
last birds of summer flown.
A single crow moves across the glass,
flaps over Glanmire.
Oak leaves dead, rigor mortis,
the seed, left hanging, eaten,
still as a rest between contractions.
The birth of the day progresses
in the garden of remembrance,
where the slide and trampoline are thrown down. 

"Who was that mad man we met on the Tube?"
"Which one?  There were so many,
I slept between them.
He gave me his address,
said I’d find us written up."
"How do I know?
You pushed me home, remember."
"I’m sure he said he’d publish your photograph."
"Ah, look, forget it.  It happens
all the time in the Underground. "

(end of CANTO III)