there is a falsehood
cuts of it are lodged between flesh and fingernails
it is a crust on cardboard packets which rest without life
against the kerb
I do not know its name

they asked me to go on the radio
and a journalist from the Times waited all afternoon
outside my house
i kept myself hid
because the only thing I wish to talk about
well,
I do not know its name 

when i was inside Sarah
i did not feel her
but i was very much aware of her concentration
- she was studying my face
I believe she was looking for evidence of satisfaction
I wanted to tell her about the only thing I feel
about what moves me in the night
about what walks in me as terror and life
but I do not know its name
I smiled
and so she cried