Note: Part of the poems sent are from an erasure of C. S. Lewis’ A Grief Observed (1961).

14.

All reality is iconoclastic.

I must stretch the arms and

hands of love to the

phantasmagoria

of my thoughts.

I mustn’t sit down content

and worship my idea. Yes,

we often make this mistake.

Talking and acting to

the picture before we even

notice the fact.

In real life there’s

always a reason for

assuming that we’ve

got one another

this time once more

I have to be finally

given up as hopeless

forever.

16.

I shall have substituted

for the real woman a

mere doll to be

blubbered over.

I did it for the

sheer pleasure

of being exposed.

Except at my job.

Even shaving.

They say an unhappy man

wants distractions.

A door slammed

in your face, and a

sound of bolting

and double bolting

on the inside. After

that, silence. There

are no lights in the

windows. It might be

an empty house.