He stared at ruin. Ruin stared straight back.

He thought they was old friends. He felt on the stair

where her papa found them bare

they became familiar. When the papers were lost

rich with pals’ secrets, he thought he had the knack

of ruin. Their paths crossed

and once they crossed in jail; they crossed in bed;

and over an unsigned letter their eyes met,

and in an Asian city

directionless & lurchy at two & three,

or trembling to a telephone’s fresh threat,

and when some wired his head

to reach a wrong opinion, ‘Epileptic’.

But he noted now that: they were not old friends.

He did not know this one.

This one was a stranger, come to make amends

for all the imposters, and to make it stick.

Henry nodded, un-.