mere words in a book
clings to us like static
on a cold day. The road
a woman walks in the last chapter
twists away from her happiness,
and the pain follows
wherever we go, haunting us
with its mute footsteps--the ghost
of pain we have known
and of pain to come.
Small explosions
of grief in a sonnet sequencé;
another fracture of innocence:
these are templates into which our lives
must fit themselves, moving shadows
the sun makes, rising and going down
on every page, as evening settles
into all the unswept corners
of the world.
Nincsenek megjegyzések:
Megjegyzés küldése