SCHOLARS HAVE NO HOUSES
Like a rat in a low-income project, there are
plenty of things on which to feed : stolen potatoes
and purloined pears. It's all there for the taking.
I live in a rickety shack, made of a glaze and a
shimmer of something - imaginatively put
together, pasted and slim, stern and solid, together.
My blind eye just gives me the other out of which
to see - things get more difficult, but they're there.
Cinderella and Snow White together, jumping; and
I am the Seven Dwarfs. With nowhere to live I have
nothing to hide and nothing to keep. I can sing at
will to the stars and the ivy. Rather difficult, again,
but no one listens to a thing I say. Simply put then :
'Scholars, I say, have no houses.'
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