my imagination has nailed my hands
to the earth and
will not allow me to pass.
the grass
presses into the shape of me
and the earth forgives, crumbles away.
I writhe on my stakes,
arch my back and strain to tear them free
my hands. poor blistered and chafed.
I live.
Derivation of Philip Larkin
Posted: May 7, 1991 in PoetryTags: Earth, Grass, Imagination, Philip Larkin
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