Henry Antony

I send up scatters of bees before me as I wander over flowers
Grass and petal and soft-morning moist in the treads of my shoes
Time the stern-faced doctor, prescribes tranquillity,
Mournful as Indian summer and regrets.
...

Whereto should I go this evening?
Roam on the spattered streets ‘till morning
Evading decision? Seek out a violent place
To worship at, and make my prayers for sicken
...

Catch us crouching in the churchyard, dancing over old bones,
Watch us run past dead bee-hives in ecstasy-nostalgia,
Skip the grey-snake road, with its bitter efficient venom
And its ferries of outsiders, in glowing repressed metal boxes.
...

The song of endless nights,
Of the unity of desert,
Of the preternatural hush
And the silent scentlessness of death.
...

She sang a song for me;
The hush of nights, and the slow pulse of creation,
Slowed in contemplation of her song.
...

I’m spending the night in a convertible,
Huddled under stratospheric clear skies
The wind blowing over the lip of the car.
It might drain the battery
...