Happy my heart and happy the whole world would be were I to open up my eyes, release my heart from lidded blindness, and see how the night is fragile. I would be happier than when night sank in my tomb, happier than the hole impressed that time, happier than that day—and than the cold and heiroglyphic ear, the world before.
But night is the night I love, my happy cold source and the edge of her eyes, whose hands are cold. If I carried her along, into a day that might depend on me, how could she hold onto me even as that day grew on, and ready for a birth to breathe upon?by Annie Finch |
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