My voice carries further, almost
All the way to the face, I go
But not forth, or I went suspended
Itself, touching the all that isn’t.
After England it could not be kept
Together, hasn’t fallen apart,
Moves like noon shadows
Forced out from the corners
Along a street of expectations.

Not really. After England used to
Has a present tense, materials
Stay both stolen and mine,
Anthology without exclusions
Where I imagined I saw the time
After England before it arrived.
I went out to meet the thing
Behind things, displeased with all
The available combinations

Living after England is
Then isn’t, where laughter opens
Onto the short-lived feeling
You should know how to
Go whole days doing
(You had everything you needed)
But do not, after England,
Have a fucking clue.
The food no longer safe,

Phrases stop short of,
No news is good, good
Things come, all signs point,
Objects may appear, it has
The ring. Possession is 9/10ths
Firing on all. Ignorance is.
My lips are. The grass is
Always. After England
The feel of not to feel

When sky invisibly divides
To let tomorrow in, where it’s better
To work than not to, far
Better to do neither, in fact
That’s your job now, reaching out
To touch a gloved hand to the face
Of the weather we walked off in
After England muttering England
Has never been enough

After itself, this little one
Where a good price is contradiction,
Getting your Albion
On then off then again.