The New Zealand poet settled to his coffee at the Astoria in Lambton Quay kindly hunched against the bitter wind at an outside table because although he hated us when smokers ruled the world he pities us these days of leprosy. He spoke of our late mutual friend from Lecce who, whilst living in Venice, paid his respects to Ezra Pound on occasion—as one would—the poet sunk below the waterline into the clarity of incommunicado and monkish accidie. One day the poet raised his head and spoke—four lines—from out the deep of his mistake—four good strong tough lines that anyone…