Naming an animal is one thing,
but naming a baby makes you think 
of all the people you hate.

Things are exactly as strange 
as you find them to be. There is a road
near where I am which is called
"The Forest." You can look on a map.

I have seen you hate things almost as much
as if they didn't exist, and in the end 
it can hurt to realise that the many beds
you made might have meant nothing at all.

It does feel cruel
to smack a cucumber 
despite what you say.

Did you see the seated frog, the pre-dawn 
columns, the weight of birds lifting 
from the tree? Onlooking children 
frowning beneath the brims 
of their bucket hats?

There is a sort of human magic 
contained within total failure. The journey 
from death to Walthamstow and back. 
The blood in the steak 
like an unfortunate sequel.

So what? And what became of the all-out 
version of just realising? In the end, the 
only problem with doing nothing 
is you can never finish.