You must go naked in the library.
That pure white gown
They hand you entering weighs nothing at all.
You put it on, surrender
Everything but a few blank pages.
They lend you a pencil that writes and rubs clean.
The supervisor has long fair hair.
You sit underground,
She sees you on a screen, white against a window,
A marble court beyond. Her gaze sharpens,
A strand of her hair gets frozen, permanently
Trapped in the woollen band the man beside her weaves.
Just so twelve years ago I went to the church
With my hair hanging down,
I left my money and keys, I was driven
In a car not my own. There was trouble
When they led us aside to sign the papers —
They wouldn’t write a line till they had their fees.
We could not move, our time settled in ice.
Sharp eyes watched in the crowd:
The beggar opened his bottle of Marie Celeste
And waved it around; my stepfather
Drew out a concealed cheque book; in the gallery
Over our heads the musicians sounded a retreat.