Beside a bowl containing an apple,
on a cloth on the dining-room table,
four hands are piled on the upturned glass
frozen, mid-jerk, between cut-out letters.
It isn’t clear if one hand’s exerting
pressure on the others to flit among
the alphabet with mischievous intent;
but judging by the thunderclouds of dirt
beneath what seem to be male nails
one would surmise that the spirit reveals
nothing more in the way of transcendence
than would the movement of freshly-poured pints
between beer-mat and mouth down the Albert –
even though you know there’s something in it.