No. 8-9


Robin Fulton   

 Actress In a Bad Garden
Stepping in, she lost her name and language. 
“To be only me,” had been her purpose, 
“essentially me.” The warmth of the walls 
spoke merely of cold on the outer side. 
On their espaliers the stretched pear-trees 
seemed to have been crucified. She looked down 
a well: all she heard was noise without words. 
And far down, the mirror that kept breaking 
and coming together again gave off 
more light than it ever could have received, 
such quantities of painful light, harsh points, 
chaos confineless, no longer constrained 
by those pentameters she had now lost. 
If she had remembered Lear she might have 
pictured his eye caught in such a mirror.  

Stepping out, she had no name or language 
waiting for her. The lines had been straightened, 
the hand-writing undone, wool unravelled, 
one line, one dimension, no end in sight.




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