Now, in Llandudno,
all the Angles are
slowly aging at the arcade.
What you wouldn't be forgiven
for forgetting again; The forests where
A, lebensrauming, came to die
over and over until they learnt
to do B in again and again and again.
Somewhere down the coast line there's
the tongue fluttering flames
like the spray of nails,
the fist full of history drying ;
muted, unfolding enmity.
The tongue, held in, itches.
Out there, in the cadaverous steel soup,
the seal heads are holy rising
again and again and again and again and again.