Letter #6
‘Do I wake …?’
Keats
Her joke’s on the onlookers
who make a spectacle only of themselves
as they crowd her room each day
By night she forgets to exist
The galleries and all their work
obligingly go dark for us
Impish experiments thrive instead
like the unexpected gift
of a cake stall in the middle of hell
Such a beautiful humour is so inhuman
it’s a cloud that hovers modestly about her
rendering her unreachable
27 July 2023
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