Insatiable April, trees in place,

in their scraped-out place,

their standing.

Standing way.

Their red branch areas,

green shoot areas (shock),

river, that one.

I surprised a goose and she hissed.

I walk and walk with cold hands.

Back at the house it is filled with longing,

nothing to carry longing away.

I look back over my life.

I try to find analogies.

There are none.

I have longed for people before, I have loved people before.

Not like this.

It was not this.

Give me a world, you have taken the world I was.



Actually not. Feigned leap into—

river glimpsed through bare


[some noun] for how thought breaks up around you not here

your clothes not wet in this deep mirror—

what Hölderlin calls die Tageszeichen, signs

scored into the soul by the god of each day

your answer scars, I still don’t know—

years from now, these

notations in the address book, this frantic hand.

– Anne Carson


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