Fallout

Morning after the row, I stare down
from our fourth-floor window to assess
the damage: blocking the drain,
his last plunge re-enacted, my Complete Hart Crane
has bloated threefold; come unstuck, with fractured spines,           
Kierkegaard and Lowry languish beside the bins.

And there in the cherry-tree’s leafless sticks,

wedged open – so a passer-below
could gaze up and discover two pages – Austerlitz
by Sebald, like a clump of vestigial snow.

                 (first published in Frogmore Papers)