Pound called Eliot ‘Old Possum’, southern American short
for their native opossum, because he pretended to look dead even though he was
alive. The marsupials that clatter rowdily over our roof at three in the
morning are not Eliots. They scramble along gutters. They hiss and lunge. The
eucalyptus is stripped of foliage. One lemon tree is ruined and they threaten
another. Cruel April! On Myers-Briggs they are bang rather than whimper types.
All of this leads to some overwhelming question. Have they never heard of the
still point of the turning world? They rub their backs against the windowpanes.
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