I wonder how good it is. Have I hammered the beauty out of it, or have I not gone far enough? Am I working against nature?
The first stanza's still cooling, but it goes something like this:
Come clattering on Sindy's plastic horse.
Come trotting to my door. I've covered
all the clocks and photographs with winding sheets.
I've shut the sun out. Come, my little too scared,
launch your Lego rocket, land it here.
Am I achieving what Eavan Boland describes as, 'pushing the music of dailyness against the customary shapes of the centuries', or am I producing something grotesque? I guess I'll have to keep bashing away at it and see what happens.