It Was Love, Of Course, Though I

It's Not That He Lacked Poetry. But His Poetry Was Of The Body, Not The Mind. He Spoke It In The Way He Moved, The Way He Held A Hammer, Rowed A Boat, Built A Fire. I, On The Other Hand, Was Like A Brain In A Box, A Beating Heart In A Coal Scuttle.

I'm A Century Old, An Impossible Age, And My Brain Has No Anchor In The Present. Instead It Drifts, Nearly Always To The Same Shore. Today, As Most Days, It Is 1962. The Year I Discovered Love.

The Soldier Had Stamped My Passport Family In Heavy Black Capital Letters And I Checked It Now For Reassurance And Because I Liked How Fierce The Word Looked

It Might Go Down Better Than Appearing As A Giant Reptile Encased In A Ball Of Fire And Forcing Yourself On Her.' 'why Do You Always Have To Bring That Up?

I, A Late Riser, Fantasise About Getting Up Every Morning At 5 A.m. To Fetch The Horses In From The Fields.