The Interest in Angus


His hair was as a girl’s: a childish mane,

Gold-wig of movement. He used to sit

Under the sun by the clear, south pane,

And like a warm heart, played around with it.

He drew as well. By thin and cautious strokes,

Over and over a thought-form would take wing:

Sometimes a lonely boy, outlined by chokes

Of silent tears; sometimes a grander thing,

A dragon of his mind’s unstopped creation.

One day he left; he left the pages by

That window seat – and brimming with temptation,

Even closer to his lair crept I –

And lifted from the residue, held before me,

An image of myself as Angus saw me.


My fascination with people who are more talented than I has often led me to terrible poetry. 


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