There are more things to love (((span class="indent8"/)))(((span class="indent1"/)))
than we would dare to hope for. (((span class="indent3"/))) (((span class="indent6"/)))
— Richard of St. Victor
where the car hit him, fireweed sprang with
blazons of fennel
and umbels
of dill fell
through the spokes of a wheel
on Whistun holiday to the sun, Denton
Welch spun a web in his crushed cycle,
sat in the seat, spine curled up like a spider —
and spied: “saw
the very drops of sweat glittering frostily
between the shoulder blades”
of a lad
… on and on he spied and bled from the blades of his cycle,
small as a spider,
hiding in the fireweed, getting
wet from the skins of many human suns aground
at the Kentish river near
Tunbridge Wells,
where the dill
lulls,
and all boys
spoil…