Overtaken in a silent village,/gathering my limbs this winter’s day, I took my chances to believe/ in the relief of manna/ that I could knead into figures,/ place in the open window,/ crusted with snow /like the hide of an anemone./Deranged cold breezes/ parted cloud cover/ I felt the power/ a witness to the heavens. From my apartness, my soul seldom sang/ but in dirges, without real words, /keening for losses, drowned in a distant choir.
Years One After the Other
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Poetry in Motion 