Beginning anywhere at all with anything,
overheard on the underground: Birth control?
She never had any. A note taped to a window:
lost keys ask inside or just get me a taxi,
and the door smacked shut. Words found
on water I ferried home, subject to scribble
and sea bile. Yes I vaguely remember Amsterdam.
Today begins my letter to the Galicians,
dated this day on the Greenwich meridian,
Lord Alfred older now home from the grand tour,
confronting at last the blankness of the page,
an empty blue whose sky will surely fill,
a mouth wide open saying anything at all:
last seen by the river talking to a man.