Prowling the meanings of a word, prowling the history of a person, no use expecting a flood of light. Human words have no main switch. But all those little kidnaps in the dark. And then the luminous, big, shivering, discandied, unrepentant, barking web of them that hangs in your mind when you turn back to the page you were trying to translate...

Banal sexism aside,I find myself temptedto read Wuthering Heights as one thick stacked act of revengefor all that life withheld from Emily.But the poetry shows traces of a deeper explanation.As if anger could be a kind of vocation for some women.It is a chilly thought.

The basic rules of male-female relationswere imparted atmospherically in our family,no direct speech allowed.

So about an hour later we are in the taxishooting along empty country roads towards town.The April light is clear as an alarm.As we pass them it gives a sudden sense of every objectexisting in space on its own shadow.I wish I could carry this clarity with meinto the hospital where distinctions tend to flatten and coalesce.I wish I had been nicer to him before he got crazy.These are my two wishes.

I will not stop singingthe Muses who set me dancing.

My mother always closes her bedroom drapes tight before going to bed at night.I open mine as wide as possible.I like to see everything, I say.What’s there to see?Moon. Air. Sunrise.All that light on your face in the morning. Wakes you up.I like to wake up.

for when I look at you, even for a moment, no speaking is left in me

As tree shapes from mist / Her young death / Loose / In you.

It is very coldwalking into the long scraped April wind. At this time of the year there is no sunsetjust some movements inside the light and then as sinking away.