88.

‘Freud was wrong,’ he told me,

forgetting about Jung, and the sleep

that overcame Endymion never

came up again, but who was right

she thought, the twilight being

all or none. Theories have ghosts

that are poems. The lake was heavy with refuse, the

carelessness of souls

too callous or thoughtless to leave

the waters alone. Only a hundred years

before they drank from this body

now festering. ’Marx was wrong,’ he

said, but who was right, she thought

and wondered whether profit needed

redeining. Images lie broken: the dumps

are ubiquitous, the rain burning their eyes.