What I Do

My ballet days are over.

And I seldom play much Chopin any more.

There is nothing to build with,

Nothing to express.

It just is.


Stare deep into the poem

Until it recognises you

And comes right.


The day is not far off,

The day is very near,

When a loss more immeasurable than galaxies or language

Will stroll into your room, very matter-of-fact,

And kill you, almost kill you.


To be neither one thing nor the other,

Or both at once,

My Japanese trick;

I collect new selves

And paste them into my album.

This moment’s actor,

I play for the sky’s sake,

Juxtaposing images

In vertiginous collage,

Lines in a haiku.