Oh how I wanted genius,
that gorgeousness surging:
no sense mattered so much as that sound.
Prone behind my bed, book in hand.
Shelley formed a bright
bubble around me on the brown shag.
My mother came in, went out
believing I was elsewhere.
I thought it would be some kind of escape,
but the words don't really carry you away.
You can't live in that realm of language.
I fall upon the thorns of life.
That's all I have to write about:
that pricking over and over
without even a skylark's flight
to fall from.