my eyes—
back there
in the mirror

a man stands
on his
head one

French poets are the greatest of all.
They arrive with different smiles. 
They are used to the sun and to coffee. 

In the middle of night 
in Brightlingsea 

Trees, rocks, the animal and human kingdom
Are all passengers of my will. I treat them
As they treat me, loving the way I go on and on

You have evil in this world as you have anything else.
I remember the first time I noticed someone was crazy.
It wasn’t interesting, really; I only wanted to leave

I (the stone) go (don’t
blind you!              even 
                                  know

as my own noise’s, no
one’s,
listening,

The woman was involved with how she looked.
The man was busy writing.

The doorbell so
Lost
        in the wall, the telephone