Overfull

I am grasping at stones
in this lake,
not with my lumberjack’s hands,
but with a little girl’s curiosity,
wondering how this dreamy-eyed
Woolf
drowned in this water,
her belly full of rocks
and her naked Albion body
wrapped in a red cloak, a red
hood
with pockets full of
bitter chocolate biscuits.
I cannot retrieve these six stones
from the waves
and must find my own,
following the stream of
thought
to the lighthouse
so I might dissemble it
stone by stone
to build a room
of my own
wherein to while away the
hours
before the rabble
drives me to drink.