every time I leave my house
Our lives are crowded with faces
that read like made-up languages
the minds behind them
as inscrutable as those of cats
and my own mind
mysterious to myself
like a fronded rock-pool
What happened where was I
in that first year of life
Was it fog-blindingly terrible
and why, in my
mother-agonisingly 'maladjustment'
did I not start wondering
till I was 81
and why did I never once mind being fatherless ?
No comments:
Post a Comment