“…Satis; which is Greek, or Latin, or Hebrew, or all three–or all one to me—for enough.”
Estella Havisham, Great Expectations, Charles Dickens


The old barren branches waited for me when no evening yet remained. In a poor
remembrance I think that the morning gates open to some destination I’ve seen
before. Such is the nature of consequence. Most gentlemen stand loitering

in the world beyond, tooling around like there’s something broken.
If a serpent knocks at the door, you answer—else it slithers in some way, making
the same request as any pretender: believe. It asks if you are thankful. You always
If you hear an occasional flutter, it is merely death sewing in the corner. I suppose
when he finds the word for my neck, he will take it. To be clear, this is not a finch
after a squall whose sound comes back for want of another.
How many spirits arrive for dinner before eight o’clock, the treasured hour which
so readily arises for murderers. This bread is a way to say I am still living.
I cannot hope to ward myself with stuff

of only half a penny. I cannot hope to

both be at the table &
be still.


This poem builds itself from:
   Dickens, Charles. Great Expectations. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s. 1996.
   Viollet Le Duc, Eugène Emmanuel. On Restoration. Tr. Charles Wethered. London: Marston, Low, & Searle. 1875.