was always there, its existence seldom
questioned or suspected. The poets of the future
would avoid it, as we had. An imaginary railing
disappeared into the forest. It was here that the old gang
used to gather and swap stories. It
was like the Amazon, but on a much smaller scale.
Afterwards, when some of us swept out into the world
and could make comparisons, the fuss seems justified.
No two poets ever agreed on anything, and that amused us.
It seemed good, the clogged darkness that came every day.
from Where Shall I Wander (2005 Ecco Press)