Judith Eyre, ‘who died much lamented,

in the 35th Year of her Age,

in consequence of having accidentally

swallow'd a Pin.’ What can we know

of her life? Within: her organs greasy grey

as filmed ponds, her blood taking the routes

Harvey mapped. No thread to follow,

only the needle—so perfectly made to make

an opening, to find a way. And this is the

only way—we dart in, so unlikely

and then so definite. Led by our finest part,

it is but narrowly we escape into our futures

(though obvious the marks upon the past).