Tape the movements of muscles nThat used to made us feel a ringnOf peace suspended ‘round the spinenWhen we stretched beneath our orange-treenWhile the noises will be asleep,nBoth the bees and broken bones nAnd bombs and trees under the gloomy salty breezenAnd all the gods of our very empty seanI shall hang on togethernKnees and soul to such a Grace,nThen I’ll stare at the TV to place nWhere I eat and rest and live and dreamnOurselves like a countrynThat’s impossible to miss.