Not to speak. Not to act is to act.
A bird can make a difference.
Yesterday, a thrush with spotted breast
stared through the high bars. Pity perhaps
for the caged creature below? That's how
I thought of it, and the soup tasted better.
In a way, Job had it easy. A rough time
for a while, but he got over it. For others,
the open wound of life never heals.
There are rumours here of a pall
of smoke that rises to putrid air.
Whitewash is not only for walls.
Does one death avenge another?
Does one death equal a hundred?
Does one death forestall ten thousand?
A letter from home today.
What tie to choose for a wedding?
Will Maria wear a coronet of flowers?
A sudden fear: I can't recall
my brother's face
Clouds race along the small square
of sky like a carousel. What is the end
but a falling into air, bloodless
as Pilate's bowl?
There is no music here though
somewhere thrushes sing and I hum
the cantata's opening bars:
Christ lag in Todes Banden
How good the body is.
All mass, even this sun-starved
skin, is frozen light.
Today the touch of wire on the throat
would feel like a kiss.