At boarding school, I had no idea what to do
with myself.  Most of the time,
I hid myself in a paper bag . . .

I arrange my books in order of height,
on a bank of cow parsley,
amid the random oscillations
of a cool breeze

I know others blossom
but I vomit ectoplasm,
and squaring the corners of my bed,
the nurse reminds me I’m not dying.

It is known: a woman like that
brings evil on board.

Heat on the window
baking my face like a biscuit.
I move some hair, look over
at moss and narcissi, in a pot –

You have buried your mother and put
a memorial bench on a high hillside where
the wind blows sunsets straight through
and it’s always better to wear something warm.

You used to wind yourself in curtain turning taut,
look down at your feet, pirouette
as the fabric hugged you in.

the undershrub, shored up,
stakes its waspish claim,
its hereabouts

The gull
on the meadow
taps her little yellow feet
like a shovel-snouted lizard
dancing on a floor of lava