One of the things about late love poems is that you can’t deny that bits start falling off. So is there still something to celebrate in The Mistake, and where and how do you find the means? When I had a skin cancer, I chose mocking defiance, always self-mocking, a kind of haka performed at this invading alien that (dammit) was a part of me. It’s an affirmation of a life-force with all its weaknesses in plain sight. So how’s it a love poem? Just hear the last line.