This is the lair of the landlady
　　
　　She is
　　a raw voice
　　loose in the rooms beneath me.
　　
　　the continuous henyard
　　squabble going on below
　　thought in this house like
　　the bicker of blood through the head.
　　
　　She is everywhere, intrusive as the smells
　　that bulge in under my doorsill;
　　she presides over my
　　meagre eating, generates
　　the light for eyestrain.
　　
　　From her I rent my time:
　　she slams
　　my days like doors.
　　Nothing is mine.
　　
　　and when I dream images
　　of daring escapes through the snow
　　I find myself walking
　　always over a vast face
　　which is the land-
　　lady's, and wake up shouting.
　　
　　She is a bulk, a knot
　　swollen in a space. Though I have tried
　　to find some way around
　　her, my senses
　　are cluttered by perception
　　and can't see through her.
　　
　　She stands there, a raucous fact
　　blocking my way:
　　immutable, a slab
　　of what is real.
　　
　　solid as bacon.