ON WRITING A CENTO
(after Through the Looking Glass)
There was a dead silence putting her mouth
close to an angry voice. It was very dry lips
curling up into a smile. Try again:
the best way to explain it
is to do it.
I should like to listen down chimneys
as large gentle eyes draw
a long breath.
That won’t do.
Every poem was a cloud of dust.
We can talk with delight about fishes
in some way. That might help a little. I should like to be
any shape, to be dignified, you know.
Little heaps of men remember
who you are, have sharper eyes
than most. Think again:
it gets easier further on.
There are two meanings packed
into a very tiny earthquake.
It would have to be very clever at explaining words.
The fishes explained, with a grin,
what sort of people live
fiction poetry "fact" photography