in mid-January, in the hills
of a northern province—only
the thin white-haired volumes
of poetry speak, quietly, like
unfed birds on a night visit
to a cat farm. And an airplane is lost
in a storm of fitting pins.
The snow falls, far into the interior.
in mid-January, in the hills
of a northern province—only
the thin white-haired volumes
of poetry speak, quietly, like
unfed birds on a night visit
to a cat farm. And an airplane is lost
in a storm of fitting pins.
The snow falls, far into the interior.
It never existed.
And when all the lamps are lit and the smell of the stew
has followed you upstairs
and slipped under the door of your study:
The lute is telling the story
of the life I might have lived,
had I not—
It never existed.
And when all the lamps are lit and the smell of the stew
has followed you upstairs
and slipped under the door of your study:
The lute is telling the story
of the life I might have lived,
had I not—