The Scapegoat

At ten past eight,
And for two undifferentiated whiles,
I vacillate,
Migraine beneath my occipital condyles,
In this passageway,
Uncertain of where I am in the sequence
Of my day.
AM or PM? I, whom, in their frequence,
Phantoms affirm,
First stamp one foot squarely off-gait on the floor,
Pivot, infirm,
And then stride as purposefully as before,
But the other way.

Blue Screen (On twice reading that Brian Matthew has just died, on the 5th and the 8th of April)

When did he die? Somewhere, in some place, the family shared three fewer days with Brian Matthew;
It separates from this place, where the family stole
Three further days; but I feel that I too was there, am suddenly here, now, rogue to the curfew,
While outside my window, at a passing place, the whole
Side of a waiting van is blue, reflects into my room, and all furnishings take on its hue,
But not my green greatcoat, nor the grey fibres that roll
From its revers into the ends of my grown hair.

I write for the desk, till Amhai's largesse pays the toll;
You discriminate not arbitrarily, nor out of hate, but to fit the hat of virtue –
Conformiter for a disposable pulp sick bowl.