sometimes I’d divide and burn in many places,
on the topmast, the yards, the bowsprit...
Henley Street
September 23, 1615
Now, now thought is closer to death than love: I live in it, longing for her, for intercourse, the ice of this winter-house aging me and the wind, poor wind, scuttling nowhere, nowhere to go.
Go to the oriel, then.
Henley Street
September 24