I sit down here drinking hemlock
While terrible things go on upstaris.
Sweat creeps like moss outward to the palms,
And time itself now seems a strange, gauze-like medium.
Sleep will leave still newer scars each night, or,
Infuriatingly, is a curtain that refuses to close.
On the horizon, bizarre consolations make themselves
Known – a full fridge, a silent telephone,
The television quiet in its corner.
Everything and nothing have become a circular
Geometrical figure, seamlessly joined,
To be wrestled innocently this way and that
Into the most peculiar almost whimsical shapes.
Send Letters To:
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.