I like on the table$$$<br>when we're speaking$$$<br>the light of a bottle<br>of intelligent wine.

Give me your handout of the depths<br>sown by your sorrows.

I could not eat a kangaroo.<br/>But many fine Australians do.<br/>Those with cookbooks as well as boomerangs<br/>Prefer him in tasty kangaroo-meringues.

Hark to the sky of a seagull!<br/>He cries because he's not an eagle.<br/>Oh$$$ what if you were you silly he-gull?<br/>What would you say to your she-gull?

Bugs. Adam had'em.

Sure deck your lower limbs in pants;<br/>Yours are the limbs$$$ my sweeting.<br/>You look divine as you advance<br/>Have you seen yourself retreating?

Grosse plodders they were all$$$ that had some learning and reading$$$ but no wit to make use of it.

Whereas before he had waited for me to ask questions$$$ now it was he who put up little ideas$$$ little debating points$$$ as though he wanted to get a discussion going.

Doing many more things until it seemed that ritual had replaced grief.

A complying memory has obliterated many of them and edited my childhood down to a brief cinematic blur.