Poetry is a form of autism. My tutor mentioned this today.
O Lord. I am her. I am cycling in Cambridge, I am cooking eggs in my Newnham room, I am writing strange, hot-worded letters to Richard Sassoon that I never send, I am at the party, knocking back brandy, biting Ted's cheek as he kisses my neck, making blood run down his face. I am waiting for this man-god to create and destroy.
All this on the bus. I must end this obsession. But I'm only half-way through. I think I'm reading in great chunks, hungrily, but I must actually be nibbling, going slow to stop stomach ache. It makes my head ache.