By Peter Halstead

The bay around our house divides
Exactly like my brain:
As if the roof were taking sides:
One half sun; the other, rain;

One part facing to infinity,
Backlit cloudlets silver-lined—
The other dark and sunless, petty,
The brooding jungle of my mind;

Anyone should be grateful for these notes,
To have them both confused and tidy,
As we all suspect that any poet’s
Id is buried in his phony student I.D.