Lamento (After Tomas Transtromer)

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…”

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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