A note to his landlady:

what was the

germ of The Work lost

in the rushing

of fields, poles, stars.

In your racket

lady clattering

the steamy lids in your

smothering basement

floor grey with fagash

cat moult & you

yelling rent rent

in a crimped brown

cardigan clutching

a letter perhaps from

the abandoned husband.

I was trying

to tell you despite

my dislike of explaining

how what I do

that pays so slowly

concerns

the difficult matter

of silence & how

to prolong it.