Trust was a blood sport. / Hunger, heretical. / .... / At my kindest, I am / Always to blame.
The body is a problem, maybe a good one, but still a problem.
I used to pretend the song had no end, like a bubble, a perfect sphere, and so long as I was inside it, I was safe.
So many poems. / So many nice poems. / More and more / and still getting stronger.
Hold everything with an open palm: the spoon / to stir sugar in morning coffee, the morning, / especially work that follows morning.
It takes all four maps on the wall to contain / Her Majesty’s Realm, its warren of colonies. / The students, forty stuffed rabbits, sit / at eternal attention, bent over tiny slates, / studious as only the dead can be.