By Richard W. Halperin
Her large mind moves slowly over everything,
Flinching at nothing, even from what she
Knows she does not understand. In each book,
She minutely examines, over hundreds
Of pages, one harmful act. Through the deep
Vibration of her sympathy, she makes me feel
That if I could see deeper into circumstance,
I would recognise myself as capable of having
Wrecked the same thing. Some of her malefactors
She drowns, some she ruins – she is theatrical –
But even in this, she still leaves room. Her poems
Are ungainly. How can I not love her for that?
During confinement, I do not need to read her.
She is in my flat. It is enough.