| The Gate of Horn Windsong |
| Perhaps it was on the third day,
hardly time enough to pass; and after such pretense I�m sure it is thought strange. Settled far, far beneath� and in that sense, detached, not you, never you, though all of me that ever was you� a box lay empty, though filled to the brim, bursting with what was contentment, or so I thought it to be. It was on the third day that the wind rose, boughs politely knocking: Come to! Come to! But it was always you. Strike me and my attention, black boot, foot in mouth, as in a cage a tiger lay; averted eye and blind thought. Coercion never suited you, but I lay down a bridge for you, spattered mud, worn and torn, a mouth full of shit for you. And in my hand burns the ash, though falling rain and bitter frost. Now you! Now you! Here is my hand and shoe, and now you, pale skin, smoke gray; and here are my stifled words and all the songs I�ve sung. But now the wind has taken you, Though hardly in every aspect: Mind, pen and paper, true, but not another word of you. |