And this is I a woman alone
at the threshold of a cold season
at the beginning of understanding
the polluted existence of the earth
and the simple and sad pessimism of the sky
and the incapacity of these concrete hands.
Time passed,
time passed and the clock struck four,
struck four times.
Today is the winter solstice.
I know the season’s secrets.
The wind is blowing through the street,
the beginning of ruination.
I am cold,
I am cold, and it would appear
that I will never be warm again.
I am cold and I know
that nothing will be left
of all the red dreams of one wild poppy
but a few drops of blood.
I shall give up lines
and give up counting syllables too.
And I will seek refuge from the mob
of finite measured forms
in the sensitive planes of expanse.
I am naked, naked, naked,
I am naked as silence between words of love,
and all my wounds come from love,
from loving.