So much that can neither be written nor kept inside!
Such thin wrists; such brittle feelings.
I want to lie down behind the furnace in this old house
While outside the early spring fusses with leaves.
I can tell you more—like how the weeks go by
And how the little kit of my heart beats
Or what avails from morning studies,
Two moths on a sill with messages.
I see how it is to not have much.
I hear a winch groaning in the next street.
What is this whistling, birds or wires?
I want this season to hurry.
I write things like: “weeks go by,”
“Apple trees have sorrows too,”
“Don’t lie about your writing…”
Planet of the Blind 