Your cool high-ceilinged life
is naked as a stage,

as if you’d taken an apartment where
the set-designer of your dreams

had recently moved out.
It is a theatre after the première,

filled up to emptiness with applause.
I think of God the Almighty after the ball,

sitting as you imagined him
on the palace steps, asleep in his slippers and topper.

Let there (he mumbles in his slumber,
dreamy and calmly afraid) be light.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences