Robert Beavis

Going Home

 

It’s getting late.

I try to find myself, reading Laing and Ginsberg.

There is no sky.

 

The beach is stony, rare plants

Low because of the wind.

Every ridge was a storm.

                                                                                                    I am not here.

 

Somebody has died in each of these houses.

Nobody else notices things like that.

My bus moves off.

 

Streetlamps in the rain.

It’s getting late.

I try to find myself, reading Laing and Ginsberg.