How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.
Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
What did my arms do before they held you?
No day is safe from news of you.
When I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.