Hell, darling, stares at us across the breakfast table as we pass the salt and brimstone and snap the paper crowded with crowing cowards. We're chafed by the hurrying goers in the Tube, the racy lackadaisical others who groom themselves and consume food out of sight. Other places, other faces eat the intimate knowing of them; those who remain strangers to us, to me, really, my dear guest-stranger-- improbable possible lover full of shifts and slidings, unexpected music glad as a stack of glasses, tragic as matches. Lord, help keep these words elided from my speech! We eat our words and whey, sugaring the pus. Toast scolds my inner ear's inner aria . . . . Writing's just a wounded man's spastic tracks in the snow --a litter of gesture against littleness.