Tuesday, October 4, 2011

this kind of bird flies backward



The Window
Diane Diprima

you are my bread
and the hairline
noise
of my bones
you are almost
the sea

you are not stone
or molten sound
I think
you have no hands


this kind of bird flies backward
and this love
breaks on a windowpane
where no light talks

this is not time
for crossing tongues
(the sand here
never shifts)


I think
tomorrow
turned you with his toe
and you will
shine
and shine
unspent and underground


No comments:

Post a Comment