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Wind
stepping out, all is wind
wind beneath your clothes pulls you these are your first steps in a highland city wind tearing at your two feet you are afraid that beyond the city gate is the abyss cities of the highlands like grains of sand on paper trembling in the wind |
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Saying that this was what it felt like to put
the right foot forward, and then the left, saying that this was the taste of morning porridge, that of milk, and this other of a niggling but persistent pain, saying — that, I suppose, was what was distinctive — being unable to keep my mouth shut, my mind from working. But a poet lives like any other creature, talks perhaps more than is normal, her doom no brighter, nor her death less dismal than any other. |
