the really unwise poems, the ones in which
             you claim to have eaten a marmoset,

or made Rasputin his last set of sandwiches,
             the ones with the Morrison’s spread, sell-by-date, 1913.

Send me the one in which you illustrated
             the fringes of the lines with pantomime dames

bursting at their seams. Send me
             the one which had quotations from every translation of Ovid.

Or the one in which you imitated the oboe-bird at evening,
             pretending to be a kitchen implement

lost in a garden of silver cutlery.
             Send me the one in which we ran away

over the moorlands, in a hailstorm, and you were so cold that
             I had to lend you my tricorn.