There’s a field inside my head.
It’s dark and flat and a moon
 
hangs above it in whose silvery
negative light nothing appears to live.
 
It’s very mysterious and simple,
on a different planet
 
to the one outside my window
that moves and is manifold:
 
each one of the tens of millions of blades of grass 
shivers in its singularity;
 
one sheep’s crusty underwool is home
to a greenbottle settling down to lay
her two hundred and fifty possibilities
 
while another stares out
of the glazed globe of an eye
not unlike a man who’s lost his mind
but found there cause instead
to be vaguely, dully, afraid of everything.
 
And beneath the sheep
and field and flattened buttercups
 
miles and miles beneath,
all is shift and shale,
burn and boil:
 
old underearth
unseeable, unexplorable;
 
who scrambles through your soft weak rock,
who swims through your molten ocean,
what holds court at the centre
of your solid iron ball the size of the moon?
 
Once I plumbed down
level by level
 
into the sea,
into the realm
 
of the falling-debris,
dead and dying-fish-eating creatures
 
into the pitch black frigid waters
and blind long-tentacled things;
down among the deepwater canyons I went
and still nowhere near was I
 
to the outer core
of the earth’s interior,
its massive indoors
 
when I saw hanging there
a sole, or flounder
 
a self never before seen – never before a self
 
but one who remained unchanged
in the bright beam of my look
(though something may have gone through it
like the mildest electric shock)
 
and I rose to the surface
like one who had only that to do
 
where slowly over the years
all that I held dear came loose
 
and I took to wandering the fields
 
that covered the earth
like so many soft individual dressings
 
and I lay down on one
and looked up at the sky
 
where I saw a fish hangingin the black, where I saw a moon.