Sunday Out

The rain day’s a muddy blur in the foreground,a John Crome elbowed into color,

frayed at the edges. The sublime rests like laid paper.The lawns as well. The hours are translucent,

truculent, slipped onto the day’s pagelike the thinnest washes. Nature is the one thing

the Christian surrenders to the Lucretian.We saw the tiny skeleton in the glass box,

jaws agape, hungry for a last meal,some joke from a manor house, unlabeled, £80.