There was a time when as an ingénue
I put my ear against the wall
to hear otherness breathing.
I made trips to places
that vanished as I saw them-
and rubbed the wings of dying moths
And loved every word madness dropped
From its awful mouth –
Long nights of living came and went –
The floors were swept and the letters sent.
Up late abridging notes on friends
whose dead eyes were lasting thoughts -
Day’s new big idea glowing in the window;
But whatever else came had already gone
In my death I continued.
