From our UK edition
Stealth is its policy. It lies in wait. It is no respecter of age. It turns up late Or far too early, without an invitation. You may not notice this miscalculation By your compositor, this turned letter Or metathesis in the river of text That flows, page after page after page, for better Or worse, unproofed, through your perfect book of health. It is what happens next.
From our UK edition
A chance in a million: he was perfectly cast In the role of his own life, though he almost flipped When told it was all in the future, and not in the past, And someone (who?) had forgotten to give him the script. He tried his damnedest, but there were other factors That made the going tough. The director allowed No rehearsals and gave the supporting actor All the best lines. His face was lost in the crowd. The shooting proceeded in too much of a rush For him to be shown the rushes. All those heartaches! That foiled ambition! He demanded re-edits, But the final cut revealed his busted flush. There was never an occasion to save the out-takes, And in the end his name was removed from the credits.
From our UK edition
To draw conclusions from the precise force Exerted by a handshake or a kiss Is to confuse a delta’s civilities With the ambiguous thunder of its source, And what the fingers or the lips endorse Could be misleading. It comes down to this: Emotions are such things as you might miss. The river is the mystery of its course. And so it may not seem to matter much If you react with unexpected fright To what was thought to be a welcome pressure, Or quite inconsequentially delight In disappointment, taking a guilty pleasure In the dismaying lightness of a touch.
From our UK edition
Come to the garden, that familiar place Where life renews itself against all odds. Untightening buds act out their memory, And dying seems a momentary pause. Our star that took an afternoon to sink Hangs in reluctance from the darkening tree Like an amused and philosophic eye Penning his treatise of the out-of-doors. We are the topics of his arguments, Enduring his extemporised revisions. We are reminded of our natural ends And of our origins, and of their laws. The knotted plum has dared at last to bloom: Its blossom has no other mind but yours. The yellow spray will lean down just for you And though its petals scatter, they are yours. Twisted wisteria unfolds and falls: Its violet is a passing thought of yours.
From our UK edition
I am your memories. They are not me. So it feels strange to be remembered by These relics of my personality. Although you mourn me, is it really me You mourn, or thoughts of me that make you cry? I am your memories. They are not me. Ridiculous, such immortality! To live like this, to hope they might not die, These relics of my personality. To be inside your head, where things you see Are seen the way I saw them. Where I sigh: ‘I am your memories. They are not me.’ They are not me and so can’t ever be Other than what they are, much as they try, These relics of my personality. I have no future any more, you see, Except in you. And that’s the reason why I am your memories. They are not me, These relics of my personality.
From our UK edition
While in the mirror I’m an aging face More or less the same day after day, In the mind’s darker space There are these handles to enticing doors Of occasional abrupt transition, Doors of entry, doors Of intercommunications Obeying the same laws. So many rooms! Such impatience!