A Wall in Naples
by Andrew Motion
I have forgotten whatever it was
I wanted to say. Also the way I wanted
to say it. Form and Music.
Perhaps it had something to do with - no,
that's not it. More likely, I should just
look at whatever there is
and fix myself to the earth. This wall,
I mean, which faces me over the street.
Smooth as a shaven chin
but pocked with the holes that scaffolders left
and flicked with an overflow-flag. Which still
leaves pigeon-shit, rain-streaks, washing -
or maybe the whole thing's really a board
where tiny singing meteors strike.
How can we tell what is true? I rest my case.
I rest my case and cannot imagine a hunger
greater than this. For marks.
For messages sent by hand. For signs of life.
