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2016.07.17 =>

Geoffrey Hill, To the High Court of Parliament

November 1994

Where’s probity in this—
the slither-frisk
     to lordship of a kind
as rats to a bird-table?

England—now of genius
the eidolon—
     unsubstantial yet voiding
substance like quicklime:

privatize to the dead
her memory:
     let her wounds weep
into the lens of oblivion.

Strange week for his death; I had been thinking about this poem in particular, with the UK taking itself apart. One of the great, mournful questioners into the nature of that country (PJ Harvey the other).

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