Denise Riley, 8 November 2018
Happiness, I consider in my papery season, did zigzag toward me until later I got hated, in the guise of that demon I was held to be.
Now I forget much, in my white fog pierced by rare if brilliant rays. My beard careens into spidery threads, long and light on the wind.
Let these scant years keep lucid, unclouded by the familiar sorrows, and released from their rattle of verdicts, whether...