Oxford, Don’t let us pretend that we are in paradise. It’s not that it isn’t very nice, for it is. It’s just that Oxford is like an antique tea-cup in which
I read you my poems when you are half-asleep Because I am so terrified of your commentary. A word from you could unravel me, Leaving me as yarn in a new labyrinth.
Why is it that even now, space and time suspending A bold battlement between us, I cannot write about you? Oh yes, you live here veiled in such a vague frame,
Since Good Friday, the bells have not rung and thus we wait, Suspended in timeless silence, anticipating Sunday. The morning brought scant sun but enough, just enough,
Here am I, darling mother host: your parasitic flesh and blood, Evicted, undercooked. A flower senseless and scentless. You did not think I would be like this.