“In a week, you will be forty-seven.” As he listened
to the first gusts of Storm Malik, the poet wondered where
their names might have come from, but at these words,
he looked at the three volumes with wrinkled pages
barely salvaged from the flood that stood on the shelf
by the window. The Diary by their favourite expat,
with an essay Against the Poets. And when he pondered
the right answer, Mr. Nothing said, “But don’t worry,
you still have two years ahead of you.”
hidden pilcrow 