Cause of death: confusion. Not from an
official disorder, the one that makes
you forget to swallow or like the sunset
or recall your bank code or find your
way home. Nor do I mean the dither of a
Sunday afternoon. Or Monday’s tangle. Or
a bank holiday’s abstruseness. The
imbroglio of divorce. The fracas of
mermaids. The bramble bush of genre. The
roller-derby of your face and how,
mirrored, it rounds the track, jams and
blocks differently each day. The addle
of men’s silence after their kingdoms
have come, their will done on earth as
it is impossible to say just what they
mean, like Prufrock. (Why don’t you wear
a true frock, Prufrock?) I mean the
species of confusion that makes you long
to leap in the lake, search for rocks to
laden your pockets. If only you recalled
which lake but does it matter, does it?
