PROOF, by Brendan Kennelly

I would like all things to be free of me,
Never to murder the days with presupposition,
Never to feel they suffer the imposition
Of having to be this or that. How easy
It is to maim the moment
With expectation, to force it to define
Itself. Beyond all that I am, the sun
Scatters its light as though by accident.

The fox eats its own leg in the trap
To go free. As it limps through the grass
The earth itself appears to bleed.
When the morning light comes up
Who knows what suffering midnight was?
Proof is what I do not need.

Brendan Kennelly is an Irish poet and playwright who wrote a collection which became a bestseller in the early nineties in Ireland: "The Book of Judas", followed by another "Poetry My Arse", a fundamental flashing irony has characterised his work since then. He is a very popular character in Ireland, he taught and maybe still teaches in the Trinity College, Dublin.
The poem "Proof" belongs to an earlier period and I was caught by it when I first went to Ireland and bought an anthology of contemporary Irish poetry. I would read and comment on end "Proof".