The flowers you gave me are rotting and still I refuse to throw them away.
Some of the bulbs never opened quite fully; they might, so I'm waiting and staying awake.
Things I have loved I'm allowed to keep!
The papers around me are piling and twisting, Regina the Paperback Mummy, what then?
I'm taking a knife to the books that I own, and chopping and chopping and boiling soup from stone.