17 JUNE 1966, Page 20
Half-Scissors
Humming water holds the high stars. Meteors fall through the great fat icicles. Spiders at rest from skinny leg-work Lean heads on shaggy head-laces
All glittering from an askew moon in the sky: One hinge snapped; white door dislocated. The night leans forward on this thin window; Next door, tattered glass,
Wind twittering on jagged edges.
Doors beat like wings wishing to rise. I lean head forward to this thin fire.
A woman leaves—even the flames grow cool— I am a one hinge snapped, a half-scissors.
PETER REDGROVE