It’s these people, they all come back to be recognised
for what they are: unspeaking, unforgiving, charmless,
jealous, persistent. I don’t like to be offputting
but I’d rather not know them, or not all the time.
I call them up one by one and attempt to take it slowly.
I could let them all come in at once, and wait
with my head in my hands for the jabbering to stop
but it won’t. Go for one by one, but deal with them quickly
without regret. They must have their feelings too,
it would be unwise to encourage their attachment.
Don’t become any one of them. Their own healthy state
is roaming free, unsheltered, naked, screaming.
It’s not for me to crown them with jewels and ointment,
treat them to shopping in Chelsea, or a romp in the park
— they’d stretch out along the edge, cling to the wiggly railings.
I can commission songs for them to sing of their secret pain.
I can persuade them the best people are vegetables,
and that the tree of heaven is a weed. I can pretend
they are shells arranged on my table, representatives
of disappearance, their own loss, hard empty receptacles.
