in a way, for all your former silkiness, you were not.
Mountains up mountains down
You know the myth —
If I were a pine
'Cause we have become, walls
When the last flower dies; Dying in that space between the soil and the pavement
Reading Neruda and then Li Po And listening to Howlin' Wolf and then Tom Waits
My Polish blood seems to be indeed red. My nation knows: mourning and death, wars and subservience. This time is my Polish time, the ontology and logic of starry night above the Polish homeland.
we made a game of it, sprawled in the back seat
I just want a do-over.