There is a name of one
who is my kryptonite
upon utterance all my defences
fall down I cower and return
to my world of torment
The name is secret to all but few
Forever in fear that the name be known
that all will utter it seemingly innocently
and take me down
revengeful, resentful, trust in few
Is it you?
Like swimming
In a stagnant pond
Tiresome
But can’t put it
Beautifully
Your face serene
Tender note
Telephoned her
To imagine
Climbing onto her roof
I smelt your hair
On the east wind
Guesses are in store
With innumerable tins
Or else all likely places
Electric fire ends
Whimsical fondness
We should meet again
Dark & grubby
See hear if you wish
Stop. Love. R
Erasure poem from ‘Dying with Henry’ p.135 from ‘Romancing: The Life and Work of Henry Green,’ by Jeremy Treglown
Count the stars of heaven 