but we must feel there is something amiss
when we come home & find michael stipe taking notes by the hedge
yes, we know: it’s the end of the world
through any crooked passage way
where tongue and fingers work a flame
is where we’ll find the brittle skin of fame, shed
caged in the language of singular intention
there is nothing more than this
apparition that feeds from below to spite us
Trying to account we count and recount our ancestors and actions,
in an inquisition of guilt
why must we feel guilt with what’s amiss?
every tried and quartered thing
or looked up into the trees and witnessed the blood eagle perched with outspread wings
just as he remembered it. Back in Athens
, surrounded by the Junta; terrorised by the silence, the slow leaves blowing
         rage through the broken, open windows: everyone unsure of what happens now
and nobody in the Agora
had ever heard of REM.
Their number one hit/their rapid eye beat/kids rapping on the streat/the ground
trembling and bucking/the sky
serene ignorant
         this unconformitory
         splitting me in two
Two halves of a whole,
         one of which knows what is amiss…
         Of what was always amiss,
         will ever be amiss
         this something/ this thing/
amiss. A miss? A Miss? Amis?