Lear went mad, Heathcliff prowled the moors,
and the militants built home-made bombs in sheds
identical to ours: old rusted tools
hanging from the beams, an ancient bicycle
half-buried under bags and bric-à-brac,
and, on a bench, covered with a hessian sac,
enough fire power to take a child’s face off.
Blow winds and crack your cheeks… We read that
again and again, as if somehow the words
through repetition alone would start to make sense.