Private Language In / creasing thought, the self   doubles / folds  inwards,  suppose a private language  against the world’s shared grammar —   self-authored, a book   written for no .  one.    A page     torn away, stains     in the margins, a footnote    wrongly numbered, the letter ‘i’    faintly printed.      Such is the pain of the man  who yearns  for his whole self   between the covers of biography   and meets only   estrangement.

“Stuck in this uneasy station, what else To do but to let these words I write (Knowing that you, Son of God, Will never write anything,...

Exile, or ignominy, or bonds, or pain   You must wait for courage or grace but fate Is stubborn. Waiting is very long, like exile, And is...