MUDDLE Beside my bed are heaps of shoes: old shoes, new shoes, large and small. On a chair are heaps of clothes: old clothes, new clothes, torn and whole. I fall over shoes and get tangled in the clothes: there is a button off somewhere that I cannot find. My thoughts drain away through a hole in my shift and my tongue is trapped in a darned stocking. I am threatened with cottons and bits of old lace and where, O where did I put my scissors? . . . O my beloved, you wouldn’t know me today! Between the prick and the bubble is the wind.