Page 66 - WTP VOl. V #9

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but that’s illusion— our shadow, though dark and far-reaching,
November Suite
has nothing to do with it and love, I have come to be
1.
At first I held out my hands, then my arms,
to welcome and hold
all that was offered. In time I learned
that none of it could be abandoned.
Having wanted so much, having accepted so much,
now possessing so much,
what could I do but carry it? I learned
how to walk slightly bent and adjust my gait to the terrain and to the pace of those I love.
has little to do with memor and what it calls for one ha
2.
A song about a song is a kind of prayer,
and I needed to pray,
but failed for the need to be sure I was heard, nor had I some other way
to be grateful, nor to imagine another motive for bothering to be.
as you quieted, and your b slowed, your tired white h
3.
To see the amber moon whiten rising in the darkening sky
4.
And the ragged birds of gri our misereres their summ our tears their signal to gat while down below, where and do not wish to see, our not entirely earth, still larg
requires peace, and even now a lover to tell you your head
5.
So now I know memory has distance in it,
grows heavier drifting into sleep. Who else might spare you
something like pleasure
in seeing the rain
a mile or so away across th come steadily closer,
from becoming someone else again? Who else offer refuge
or looking up
from under the lamp on th that appears to come unen swirling like summer’s mo
now from self-injury? Love is required, yes, but also fact:
the moon from night to night changes as if our own vast
then, as it nears,
(and as it nears it comes fa or seems to)
I resign myself
to breathing the air Gauta and Stalin, during their bri shared with the trees
shadow, otherwise invisible, were passing over it like memory,
in the present or not at all, so I can say only that tonig
resting on my shoulder, se heavier and even dearer to
richarD hoFFMan
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