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.

Verses on John Milton’s Paradise Regained, Book IV (“Unobserved Home to His Mother’s House Private Returned”) “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, other than Some marks in the sand), Lift you high and set you down on a green bank Where angels serve celestial foods And ambrosial wines (Real or illusory, I discern not). And as you partake, You wait and hope for what you don’t see,

Above Heroic (Though in Secret Done) 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 walked in steps, solitary. The Lord’s world lies before you, but all is war. A bulldog ant bites its tail just as the tail stings The head, multiplying curses. Earth tacks to your toes, dust sticks to your face. Strong light beats down; it burns your forehead As in wandering mazes you roam. At dusk