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Poem	One day He tipped His top hat and walked out of the room, ending the argument. He stomped off saying: I don't give guarantees. I was left quite alone using up the darkness I rolled up my sweater, up in a ball, and took it to bed with me, a kind of stand-in for God, that washerwoman who walks out when you're clean but not ironed. When I woke up the sweater had turned to bricks of gold. I'd won the world but like a forsaken explorer, I'd lost my map.
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