Where white is black and black is white, I won.
It took the whole of Creation to produce my foot, my each feather: now I hold Creation in my foot.
Do as you like with me. I'm your parcel. I have only our address on me. Open me, or readdress me.
And as if reporting some felony to the police they let you know you were not John Donne.
There is no better way to know us Than as two wolves, come separately to a wood.
I think it was Milosz, the Polish poet, who when he lay in a doorway and watched the bullets lifting the cobbles out of the street beside him realised that most poetry is not equipped for life in a world where people actually die. But some is.